Choosing Love
by Dark3Star
Summary: Unable to cope with John's obvious feelings for him, and his own feelings for John, Sherlock orders John out of his life, and 221 B. It was supposed to be a relief, but Sherlock finds he cannot ignore the devastating consequences to his heart. Worse yet, Sherlock's actions throw John in the path of a serial killer bent on revenge.
1. Regardless of the Cost

_Unable to cope with John's obvious feelings for him, and his own feelings for John, Sherlock orders John out of his life, and 221 B. It was supposed to be a relief, but Sherlock finds he cannot ignore the devastating consequences to his heart. Worse yet, Sherlock's actions throw John in the path of a serial killer bent on revenge._

 **Choosing Love**

Prologue: Regardless of the Cost

The plane lurched into the sky and he felt his heart sink with more than the weight of gravity. He had done it. He had really done it, and because he had chosen love over money, his father might never speak to him again...

He sighed, and turned to look at his new bride, Jessica, sitting beside him. He had chosen correctly, he knew it. Love wasn't something to be lightly thrown away, regardless of circumstances.

When he had first spoken of his intentions, his father had been livid. His father was adamant that Jessica was only after money and power and would be a blight on the family name. Nothing he had said could convince his father, and his father had threatened not only to remove all financial support, but also to ensure that he was blacklisted from every possible place of employment in the medical field. He had managed to complete his medical training before his marriage, so they were not entirely without hope.

Jessica mumbled quietly and leaned her head on his shoulder. He leaned forward and kissed her temple, a smile curling at the edge of his lips. "Try to sleep," he whispered. "We'll be there soon." They were together, so no matter how little they had, they had everything.

He twined his fingers through hers and watched the last lights of London disappear outside the plane window. For now, he had to leave the country. For the moment they were exiled, but that would change. He would make it change if it was the last thing he ever did. They would return one day and, in the mean time, he would try to make things right, not because he felt entitled to the money, but because he hadn't given up on his father. Traditions existed for a reason, but sometimes it was better to break them, than keep them.

Hadn't he always claimed he would show his father how to run a strong business that hadn't lost its heart? He could do that from the United States of America as well as from the United Kingdom, maybe better since here he would be starting from the ground up. He would work hard, make his own name, and start a family with Jessica. He would reach out to his father every step of the way, and make sure the older man knew that as much as he might have closed himself off, his son still loved him, and wanted him to be part of his life and his family.

With that happy thought, he leaned his head back against the headrest of his seat, and slept.


	2. Dissolution

**Trigger Warning: This chapter contains graphic depictions of a violent murder, and a criminal dog fighting ring. Please be safe and do not read if this may trigger you.**

 **Welcome back! I know the prologue was short and cryptic, but we're about to really get into it now. I hope you enjoy the story! ^_^**

* * *

Chapter One: Dissolution

It was the husband, Sherlock was sure of it. Then again, that deduction hardly required the mind of a consulting detective; when one spouse was missing it was almost _always_ the other spouse. It was so common that it might as well be included in the marriage vows, but naturally people preferred fantasy to reality.

Lestrade and John were with him; they were currently walking up to a non-descript house in the suburbs of London. Lestrade had been called in because of suspected kidnapping, which widened the usual range of search. Sherlock scanned the front of the house with disgust. Everything was tediously typical and boring. The front gardens were neatly kept, the house was in good repair, and well within the means of a middle class family.

Sherlock had skimmed the initial police report, so he knew that Margret Werner had been a house wife, but her garden would have told him that. Not only was it immaculately tended, but it was full of tiny details such as rocks painted and carved to look like animals, fairies, or gnomes. Sticks and old grape vines stretched and arranged to look like little doorways or houses. These touches were subtle, often under or to the side of a plant, which both made the scenes look more natural, and easier to hide.

Margret Werner had been a house wife who wanted an escape, but hadn't seen a way out, so she'd made little worlds in her garden and spent what time she could there. This was the smaller front garden, facing the street, which meant the house _and_ the back garden were inhospitable territory.

The husband, Anthony Werner, opened the front door before they reached it, and ushered them inside. He was a tall man, approximately thirty pounds overweight, with broad shoulders, hair that was noticeably thinning and receding, and a scruffy beard. Overall he looked average enough. He was tall, but not remarkably so, with average coloring and features. The extra weight might make him seem more friendly, but the movement of his hands indicated they had been broken before, most likely in a fight, and his muscular strength, while not matching Sherlock's, was significant.

Sherlock scanned and rolled his eyes at the wrestling trophies displayed on the mantle. They were decades old, the most recent dating back to Mr. Werner's university days. The sitting room was comfortable with little of the intricate touches Mrs. Werner had bestowed upon the garden, indicating she had little say in household decoration. A strong man of forgettable appearance, who took great pride in his physical accomplishments, combined with a desire for control which quashed the creative impulses of hard working spouse painted a very clear picture: abusive husband.

There was also a slight curl of the lips indicating a sneer when he asked about Donovan's credentials, which gave a strong indication of his dislike of women in general. He was subtle about it, though. He tone was nothing but friendly, and if he focused on Lestrade, Sherlock, and John more than Donovan, well, they were leading the investigation, weren't they? Perfectly excusable. To idiots.

No, Mr. Werner's general mediocrity would not protect him, not this time. Sherlock brushed past him without any attempt to take his offered hand. Introductions were tedious and pointless. Lestrade cried out in predictable indignation, and began making apologies. He knew it wouldn't stop Sherlock, social niceties never had.

Sherlock felt John's gaze on his back as he walked away and it rankled. John had added a reprimanding shout of his name to Lestrade's objection, but it had no real fire to it. Unlike Lestrade's weary resignation, John was actually amused by most of Sherlock's oddities. That had been fine at first, it was what had helped them build their unexpected partnership. They worked on cases, John's obliviousness was mildly amusing, and his blog attracted more and more interesting cases. It had been a good arrangement, until John had done the unthinkable.

John Watson had fallen in _love_ with him.

Not just infatuation and curiosity sparked by the incessant insinuations of others, but a deep, unyielding affection and loyalty.

Despite the promising case in front of him, Sherlock found his mind pulled back to one afternoon, several months ago, just after they'd closed a case. They'd both slept, for once, and when Sherlock had stumbled into the kitchen John had hot tea waiting for him. John had handed the mug to him with a small smile, his face flushing slightly with pleasure when Sherlock entered the room.

Sherlock had stopped and stared, his hand already partially extended to reach for the tea, but John was used to all manner of odd behavior, and had simply leaned forward to place the warm mug in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock had reflexively lifted the mug and drank from it. It was exactly as he liked it. John, meanwhile, had returned to contentedly perusing the morning paper and nibbling on his toast. There was a plate for Sherlock as well, but John hadn't commented on it. Even Sherlock was hungry after a case, and would usually eat with no nagging required. Sherlock sat, but he hadn't been able to make himself eat.

Sherlock had been almost beside himself. _How_ had he not noticed that John was in _love_ with him. It was _obvious_! Granted, many of the world's idiots had been insinuating their feelings for each other since they first became flatmates, but it wasn't true in the beginning, so Sherlock had ignored it. He'd never imagined it was a possibility, John _knew_ Sherlock was married to his work, so why…?

Sherlock had assumed his thinking pose, hands pressed together in front of his face, and considered. Their partnership had slowly become more fluid and routine, but that was natural for any flatmates. John had always been attached to him, you didn't shoot cabbies for people you barely knew if you weren't attached, but it had been the thrill of the game, the chase, and the danger that had first attracted John. If anything, Sherlock's general disposition had been a drawback to being flatmates and associates.

John _had_ become his friend though, Sherlock had seen that happen, and was surprisingly grateful for it. He didn't really have friends because few people could tolerate him just as he was. John, meanwhile had been his staunchest defender when Moriarty's trap had closed in around him, his trust never once wavering.

That had made the fall and his time away more difficult than Sherlock had anticipated, but he still did it. It was what had to be done. Granted, John hadn't exactly welcomed Sherlock back with open arms. He'd remained stoically silent and stubbornly away from 221 B until Sherlock apologized. John had deserved an apology, of course, but many people Sherlock interacted with did, and that fact had never made Sherlock _want_ to apologize before...

" _Your food is getting cold, eat_."

Sherlock had blinked and refocused on John, who was still sitting beside him, and gestured at the breakfast he had undoubtedly prepared. Sherlock glanced down at the food, picked up his fork, and began to eat. If he didn't it would only start a row and waste time that could be better spent thinking. He _felt_ the smile John sent his way before he looked up to confirm it.

" _I'm going to go make some notes for the write up_ ," John had said, standing and beginning to clear away his dishes. " _Don't forget, Greg wanted us to drop by the station in two hours to give our statements_."

Sherlock had made a non-committal noise and John moved to walk past him to the sink. As he did, John's hand had deliberately brushed Sherlock's shoulder. There was no purpose for it other than to express affection. Sherlock had turned and caught John sending another of those infuriatingly affectionate smiles his way. Sherlock had known from that moment that John's... _sentiment_ was definitely going to be a problem.

For several months now Sherlock had done his best to ignore John's feelings. He certainly hadn't been obvious about it, by normal standards John had been the picture of discretion. Sherlock doubted John even wanted him to know, but there was little anyone could keep from Sherlock for long.

Still, the affection, the _love_ felt suffocating. How was he supposed to concentrate on cases?! John was _always_ there! With other people Sherlock would make a game of observing their emotions and how he could manipulate them. He would hold his stare for five more seconds and this person would look away, put the right amount genuine sounding concern in his voice, and Lestrade would relent on Sherlock's plans when normal common sense would preclude such an action. But it wasn't a game with John, it was distracting!

Sherlock was still able to deduce things such as, eight more seconds of eye contact and John _might_ try to kiss him, or if Sherlock flopped onto the sofa, regardless of John already sitting there, John would only take Sherlock's head into his lap and start to run his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls. He'd deleted so many useless details, but they were relentless, taking up valuable space in his mind palace.

John had become such an integral part of Sherlock's cases that Lestrade had begun to contact _him_ instead of Sherlock when they needed to give statements, or when there was some tedious press conference or other such event that Sherlock would rather not waste his time attending. Even now, John was probably trying to run interference for him, sooth the temper of the affronted Mr. Werner. As if Sherlock need the help! He'd been solving cases perfectly well since primary school!

Sherlock bit back the urge to growl in frustration. His own thoughts had made his point for him. He'd spent the last thirty seconds absorbed in thoughts not related to this current case, because of _John_! This was intolerable. No, it couldn't be ignored or deleted, so it had to addressed. But not now, _now_ the game was afoot.

Sherlock strode through the back door of the house and out into the garden. It was a barren, sandy wasteland compared to the front garden. Nothing grew here except for short, well trodden grass. It was a practical setup, considering the yard was ringed with a dozen kennels. Each was of barely adequate size, with the barest minimum of food and water visible. It would meet all legal regulations without any superfluous touches, Sherlock was sure. Then again, this was Mr. Werner's home was much more likely to be subject to observation.

According to the case file Mr. Werner was both the landlord of a low-income apartment complex that was currently under renovations for modernization, and the owner of a small dog shelter that operated out of his home. On paper, Mr. Werner was a veritable saint, but appearances were _always_ deceiving.

Sherlock scanned the kennels that ringed the yard. There were nine Staffordshire Bull Terrier's, two German Shepherd dogs, and one Chow Chow. Typical, tedious, and beyond moronic.

A flurry of footsteps behind him announced the arrival of Mr. Werner, Lestrade, and John.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!" Mr. Werner shouted, bursting into the back garden, followed closely by Lestrade and John. "I agreed to an interview, not to have my house ransacked! My _wife_ is missing, and I sure as hell didn't lose her in the back garden!"

It was an impressive display of temper, but Sherlock could tell Mr. Werner was holding back. Then again, it would hardly help his argument that he was deserving of better treatment if he assaulted Sherlock, as he very much wanted to do at this moment.

Normally Sherlock droned out such noise and let someone else deal with the fallout, but Mr. Werner was a typical thick-headed alpha male and he had just issued a challenge. If Sherlock ignored him, which was more than tempting, he likely _would_ be assaulted. While it would be mildly satisfying to break Mr. Werner's jaw, it wasn't necessary. Lestrade would ensure he received the most severe punishment allowable both for the murder of his wife, and his…other activities.

No, it wasn't necessary and it would only prolong this case, which wasn't even a four. Sherlock wouldn't have come at all normally, but it had been a slow week.

"No, but there may be indications of what happened to her here, or elsewhere in the house," Sherlock responded, turning to face Mr. Werner, who was attempting to loom menacingly in Sherlock's personal space. "The purpose of every investigation is to gather evidence, and to do so as thoroughly as possible. If you, as you seem to be insinuating, have nothing to hide, then there should be no difficulty in allowing the Yard and myself to look around. Ransacking will hardly be necessary."

Mr. Werner huffed angrily and turned to scowl at Lestrade. " _This_ is how you allow your men to behave?!"

Lestrade had both hands slightly raised in a pacifying gesture. "Mr. Werner, Sherlock is the most observant man I've ever met. He doesn't miss anything. That's important for a missing persons case, because our best chance of finding your wife alive is in the first forty-eight hours."

Mr. Werner crossed his arms over his chest and continued to glare. "I will be filing a complaint about this!" he insisted.

Sherlock, meanwhile had stepped away from Mr. Werner, and begun to circle the back garden, strolling casually in front of each cage. The Chow growled at him, and many of the others eyed him warily. When he reached the fifth Staffordshire Bull Terrier, a gray one with white patches on his toes and chest, Sherlock paused. The dog lay almost motionless, its hind legs tucked up in a sphinx position, and its head resting on its paws. It looked up at him through squinted eyes, then screwed it's eyes shut.

Sherlock leaned over the cage, and braced his hands on either side, but still the dog did not react. "Up, get up!" Sherlock bellowed, rattling the cage loudly, but the dog did not respond, except to urinate where it lay. Sherlock's frowned deepened as his last suspicion was confirmed.

"Hey, you shouldn't do that!" Mr. Werner called loudly, jogging over to where Sherlock stood. "You'll frighten the beasts." His tone was reprimanding, but his stance and inflection was a good deal less angry than he had been. It was a protest only for show.

"I'm sure you're much better at it," Sherlock replied calmly.

"Well, I have been working with the beasts since I was a child. My father got me into the business," Mr. Werner explained, having the audacity to look pleased. He didn't even have the common sense to see the insult.

Sherlock turned and made his way back to Lestrade and John, both of whom were frowning. "Well?" Lestrade asked wearily, his expression broadcasting his growing headache to the world.

Sherlock leaned down and scooped up some lose earth from the nearly barren ground, rolling it around in his hand and letting it fall through his fingers as he stood. "You'll need your best forensic team on this one, and your best canine unit. One that doesn't spook easily and can distinguish between different blood scents easily."

Lestrade arched an eyebrow at him. "Why?"

"Because the ground where Mrs. Werner is buried has been soaked in blood many times," Sherlock replied grimly, almost whispering. "But not always human blood."

"What's going on here, mate?" came the gruff voice of Mr. Werner as he approached them.

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, when John stepped in-between Mr. Werner and Sherlock.

"They're just reviewing the details of the case, Mr. Werner," John soother, his voice calm and approachable.

"I can't see what they have to review already," Mr. Werner snapped, "You lot _just_ arrived."

John nodded patiently, not appearing at all frazzled. "The protocols the Yard has to follow can be very time consuming, but only because they never want to miss anything on an investigation. I know you want your wife back safely, that's what we all want. Right now this investigation is just in the beginning stages, and we need to make sure we're well organized. Sherlock can get a little excitable sometimes, that's probably why he rushed out here to the back garden so quickly. While they get their plan together, why don't you tell me more about your shelter? I hear it's been a fixture in the community for years."

John slowly maneuvered himself so that he and Mr. Werner ended up walking back towards the kennels at the edge of the garden. Sherlock was grateful for the intervention. John had seemly endless patience for the nonsense of others, which left Sherlock free to focus on more important things. John turned then, and sent Sherlock a small smile over his shoulder. It was only for a moment, but it was enough to ruffle Sherlock's feathers and strengthen his earlier resolve. He did _not_ need a keeper.

"He runs a dog fighting ring? Here?!" Lestrade asked quietly, though his face hardened menacingly.

"At least _try_ to use your brain!" Sherlock hissed. "It's in the apartment complex that's 'under renovations.' Those renovations will never be finished because it's the perfect cover. Far enough away from home for Mr. Werner to feel safe, but close enough to make his home a decent place for storing any overflow dogs."

"This is going to be a hard sell as a search warrant, Sherlock," Lestrade replied, his voice low and angry. "Those were legitimately rented apartments for a long time."

"Of course they were!" Sherlock pressed. "And he'll eventually fix these one's up and rent them out to finance his next purchase of land. If he keeps moving around and keeps up appearances of running a legitimate business it makes him harder to catch!"

Lestrade ran his thumb over his lips, thinking. "I could ask judge Smith, but it would take at least a day to get approval."

"You can't wait a day!" Sherlock insisted. "He's been doing this for years, this is a family business. He _knows_ how to make evidence disappear quickly if he needs to. If you wait for the proper paperwork and traces of Mrs. Werner and the dog fighting ring will be long gone."

"My hands are tied, Sherlock," Lestrade said, lifting his arms in a partial shrug. "I'll go out on a limb for you if I can, I've done so before, but I will _not_ break the law for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock growled in frustration, breaking away from Lestrade and storming back towards the house.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him, but Sherlock refused to turn around, only lifting his hand in parting.

"You do your job, Lestrade, and I will do mine!"

Greg took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reminding himself he was too old to throw things, especially not at work. A hand squeezed his shoulder gently, and he turned to face John, who had returned to his side. "I'll go with him," John said.

Greg nodded. "Thank you, John. Someone needs to be Sherlock's voice of reason."

John smiled. "I don't know about reason, but I'll do my best to keep him from blowing anything up."

"Please do," Greg replied, waiving John after Sherlock, who had already disappeared into the house by now.

"Where are they running off to?" Mr. Werner asked, walking up to Lestrade.

Lestrade put on the calmest, most believable smile he could muster. "They were called away to another job," he explained. "Mr. Holmes is a very popular consultant."

"Hm. Well I think we'll get on just fine without him," Mr. Werner muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully."

"Why don't we go back inside, Mr. Werner, and I can go over your statement with you, to make sure we're not missing anything."

Mr. Werner's eyes shifted to focus on Lestrade's face and he nodded. "Let make it quick, eh? I've got a busy schedule."

* * *

"A shelter?" John asked when the cab pulled up to "Forever Homes Shelter." It must have something to do with the case, John had known Sherlock too long to assume otherwise, but as usual he was in the dark about _how_ this animal shelter related to the case.

Sherlock nodded. "I was serious about a search dog. Lestrade won't act in time, so we have too."

"We're adopting a dog?" John asked slowly, suspecting he was off the mark.

"No, we're barrowing a dog," Sherlock clarified, stepping out of the cab, and walking towards the front door. "Toby's the best at what he does. It's a pity he was never bred, Lestrade's canine unit may hope to come up to par if they had his genetics."

The bell on the door tinkled as they entered a small, clean lobby. There were eight chairs around the outside of the lobby, various pet paraphernalia for sale in displays, and one large black cat with a pink collar lounging on the counter who peeked open a green eye as they entered, then stretched.

"Just a moment!" came a cheery, welcoming voice from the back.

John stepped up to the counter and offered his hand to the cat, who sniffed it, then butted her head against it, demanding affection. John smiled and scratched behind her ears. The cat had just started to purr when the door to the back opened, emitting a short, thin woman with close cropped brown hair and eyes as green as her cat. A small sparrow was perched in her hair, nestled down as though it never intended to leave. Her name tag declared her to be Lauren Henick.

Lauren met John's gaze and smiled warmly. Her eyes shifted to Sherlock next, and her smile faded. "No," she said sharply, already turning to leave. She paused at the door and turned around, reaching out her arms for the cat, who didn't look inclined to move. Lauren had just pulled the cat into her arms when Sherlock darted around the counter and blocked her exit into the back rooms.

"Just hear me out," Sherlock began.

"I don't _have_ to hear you out," Lauren insisted. Her volume was moderate, but her tone was steely. "I told you last time Toby was off limits to you. You don't care about him or the dangers you put him through. You deceived me into letting you barrow him in the first place. Never again. Especially not now. He's eleven, and even if you were a decent person, he's too old. If you're here to beg for Toby it means the police aren't cooperating. I'll be happy to watch them cart you away." Lauren shifted the cat to one arm and reached into her pocket for her phone.

"It's about a dog fighting ring." Sherlock said calmly.

Lauren stilled, then her eyes lifted to meet Sherlock's before narrowing ominously.

"Well, in all honestly, it's about a murder, but the husband did it, and he runs a dog fighting ring. That's where the body's hidden and I need an unparalleled search dog to help me find it. I find the body, I shut down the ring. Lestrade's a soft touch just like you, all the dogs will be well cared for."

Lauren's sharp gaze shifted to John, who started to nod and added, "As far as I can tell it's all true. Sherlock's almost never wrong. There were a dozen dogs at the house, he claims to run his own, small shelter."

Lauren let out a long sigh that sounded more like a growl, then looked back to Sherlock. There was a lengthy pause before she said, "If anything happens to Toby, I. Will. Be. Out. For. Blood."

Sherlock nodded. "Nothing will happen to Toby. His health will be my highest priority."

Lauren continued to stare Sherlock down for a long moment before moving forward once more. He stepped aside to allow her to pass. When she returned the cat and the bird were gone. Instead she held the leash to an elderly looking beagle, whom John assumed must be 'Toby.'

Toby perked up when he entered the room, his tail wagging furiously when he saw Sherlock. Sherlock reached a hand out to accept the leash and Toby yipped in greeting, jumping up to press his forepaws into Sherlock's legs. Sherlock leaned down to pet his head, and the Toby seemed to sigh contentedly.

Lauren, meanwhile, looked highly displeased. "For the life of me I will never figure out why he likes _you_."

Sherlock straightened to meet Lauren's gaze. "You're the one who always says dogs are the best judge of character. Perhaps your judgment is off, and not his."

"I want him back by evening," Lauren insisted, her gaze narrowing even further. "If not, I will report him stolen."

Sherlock nodded and turned to go.

"I'll watch out for Toby," John assured Lauren before he left.

She nodded and ground out something that sounded like, "Thank you" or "You'd better."

* * *

The apartment complex was a plain gray structure with very little decoration. It was surrounded by a chain link fence that was secured with a padlock and several "under construction" and "no trespassing" signs were posted at regular intervals along the fence. Even under the gray overcast typical of London weather, the place looked foreboding.

Sherlock, John, and Toby stood together near the entrance, looking up at the structure in silence. At length, Sherlock spoke. "I think I hear a baby crying in there." He was already pulling on blue medical gloves.

John sighed softly, pulled on his own gloves, and replied. "I suppose I do too."

Pretense out of the way, Sherlock removed some delicate instruments from his pockets, and opened the lock. He would have preferred to climb the fence, but it was thoroughly surrounded with barbed wire on the top, Mr. Werner's vicious nature making itself known again.

Once they were all inside the fence, Sherlock reached through and fastened the lock again. This would give the appearance, to the casual observer, that nothing was amiss and hopefully give them more time. Mr. Werner was so antsy; they had little enough time as it was.

Getting into the building itself was easier, the locks were hardly worth picking they were so simple. It was dark inside, so they turned on their torches and used the maintenance stairwell to gain access to the basement. When they neared the bottom, the smell hit them.

Decay is composed of many smells: rot, mold, animal filth, and blood. All elements were strongly present in the basement of Mr. Werner's apartment complex. John turned away for a moment and covered his face with his palm. Being a doctor, John was used to all manner of unpleasantness, but this was an enclosed space with little ventilation, making the effect more powerful than normal. Sherlock's scarf was in his outstretched hand before he could properly think about it, and John took it gratefully, wrapping it around his nose and mouth.

Sherlock pushed away his irritation that he had reached for his scarf so automatically when he noticed John struggling. The only things that should be that reflexive should be case related; there wasn't room for anything else! Refocusing his attention, Sherlock opened the door to the basement and walked inside.

It was a dimly lit room with a solid concrete floor that was barren except for a fine coating of sand. The sand, Sherlock deduced was probably tracked from the fighting ring, which should be closer to the center of the large space. Sherlock could easily hear the shifting and snarling of the dogs in their cages as they entered. The barking that followed echoed around the large space menacingly.

Toby never flinched, too seasoned and well trained to be distracted. When they paused just inside the door he sat and looked to Sherlock, waiting for his cue. Sherlock knelt and produced Mrs. Werner's hairbrush. Toby dutifully sniffed, then pressed his nose to the ground. He started to move in circles, each circle growing wider as he searched. Sherlock, mindful of his promise to Lauren, stayed with him. John followed as well, but slower as his eyes took longer to adjust.

At length Toby veered left following a trail that wound close to many of the cages. Each time he passed a cage Toby inched close to it, only to be viciously snarled and snapped at. Toby never started or pointed, merely seeming to consider for a moment, before moving on. The rows of cages went on, and on, and on. Sherlock counted nearly three dozen dogs, and frowned. For an operation this large, Mr. Werner would need help, which meant more than one person held the key, and could be by at any time to 'care' for the animals being held here. Time was working against them in more ways than one…

Toby pulled at his leash, finally moving away from the cages and towards the ring. It was close to the center of the large space, as Sherlock had suspected, furthest away from the ventilation, and the air felt thicker, stiller, and more ominous. The sand at the center was rust colored and ill kempt, with paw prints disturbing the rake patterns underneath. Toby sneezed as they approached, as if the smell offended him, but pressed on into the enclosure around the ring.

Sherlock let the leash go for the moment as Toby circled the ring. They were a decent distance from the kennels and Sherlock wanted to have what he came for quickly. The moment Toby reached the center of the ring his sat and howled softly, his declaration of success. John praised the dog , and pet him, while Sherlock nudged him over and began to dig. When he didn't find anything in the first few inches, he dug more forcefully.

Toby began to dig beside him, encouraged by Sherlock's energy. John reached out a hand to discourage the dog, but Sherlock slapped it away. "Let him help, he's got the right tools for the job."

"He's going to contaminate the evidence, Sherlock," John insisted reasonably.

"If we don't get evidence in the next sixty seconds, we might not get it at all," Sherlock clarified. Even if Mr. Werner's lackeys didn't stumble across them, Mr. Werner definitely would, he was just intelligent enough to be concerned.

John's mouth formed a grim line, and he bent to help the other two, flinging sand out to the side in an effort to prevent it from spilling back in on itself more than it already did. Toby gave another short yip just as Sherlock's fingers closed around what was most likely a clump of hair. Sherlock tugged to test the strength of the fibers he could feel, but not yet see in the dim light, and paused when he felt a greater sifting in the sand than he expected. He extended both his hands to encircle the head, and lifted. It came without much resistance, nothing else attached.

"That poor woman," John murmured as Sherlock brushed sand away from the face, frowning.

"They eyelids have been ripped off," Sherlock noted, peering closely at Mrs. Werner's severed head. "I'm guessing she didn't like the dog fights, and Mr. Werner wanted her front and center, unable to look away, so to speak."

John looked away. He'd seen many gruesome and terrible things, and had long reconciled himself to his own need for danger, but he never lost sympathy for the victims.

The dog in the crate nearest to him shifted, catching John's eye. It was chewing on something between its paws and eyeing him warily, as if expecting John to snatch it from him. It was a bone, and a rather large one, even for a dog of that size. An uneasy feeling grew inside his chest until John leaned closer, trying to get a better look at the bone. The dog dropped its treat and skittered back, snarling.

John paled and nudged Sherlock hard in the ribs, so that he would turn and look. "Sherlock… that's a _human_ femur…"

Sherlock leaned close over John's shoulder to see for himself, and then nodded. "Well, that's one way to get rid of evidence."

"Sherlock!" John hissed, elbowing his friend in the ribs a bit harder.

Sherlock's attention, however, was focused on the door to the basement. "Take the dog," he whispered, moving to crouch in front of John, and passing Toby's leash to him.

John stayed low, pounding footfalls on the stairs finally reaching his ears moments before the door was flung open. The room was poorly lit, but not dim enough to conceal Sherlock and himself. An enraged Mr. Werner spotted them almost immediately and leapt towards them with an angry shout.

There was no other exit to the basement except for the one behind Mr. Werner, so Sherlock ran forward to meet him. Just before they collided, Sherlock skittered to the right, causing Mr. Werner to stumble before he could turn around. His bulk was working against him.

Mr. Werner glowered and lunged again for Sherlock, who darted around a dog crate. Sherlock made sure to stay close enough to keep Mr. Werner's attention on him, grateful that John was staying back with Toby; Lauren's threat had been absolutely serious.

John was also probably calling Lestrade, whom Sherlock had texted just after they found the kennels. Sherlock could have overpowered Mr. Werner and been done with it, but given that Lestrade and backup were likely to arrive in the next thirty seconds, it would probably be best _not_ to be spotted throttling the suspect.

Sherlock ducked around a supporting pillar, ready to dart out into the maze of cages once more when a large PVC pipe struck him across the face. Sherlock reeled, cursing himself for not anticipating a weapon.

Mr. Werner's hands closed around Sherlock's neck from behind, John shouted, and Sherlock was just maneuvering to break the hold when Lestrade barreled into the room with his team behind him.

"Do **not** move!" Lestrade bellowed.

Mr. Werner, however, was not inclined to listen, and his fingers began to tighten at Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock grunted and jerked his arm around and down sharply onto Mr. Werner's outstretched arms. The grip waivered but didn't break; Mr. Werner was stronger than Sherlock had originally surmised. Sherlock jerked his arm straight, driving his fist backwards into Mr. Werner's nose. There was a satisfying cracking sound, and Mr. Werner's grip relaxed enough for Sherlock to stumble out of it, directly into John's waiting arms.

"I told you to wait by the ring," Sherlock wheezed as John's hands and fingers swept over his face and neck, assessing the damage.

"You never listen to _my_ warnings," John countered, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, wincing at the sudden pain the movement caused. "Stay still!" John admonished, staring directly into Sherlock's eyes. Slowly, John raised his torch and shined the light into Sherlock's face, then pulled it away again. At length, John nodded. "I don't think you have a concussion, or a broken nose, but you're going to have one hell of a black eye tomorrow.

Sherlock felt uncomfortable with John's hands still on him, so he stepped away. "Professional liability, I'm afraid."

"You have a lot of those," John remarked with an unabashed grin. Sherlock, despite himself grinned back.

"You two!" Lestrade called out, storming over to Sherlock and John while several members of his team wrangled Mr. Werner into handcuffs. "This is _**not**_ funny! Do you have _any_ idea the amount of work you just made for me?!"

"But we confirmed that there is a dog fighting ring, _and_ we saved you the work of finding he body," Sherlock insisted, still grinning. "I left a severed head for you in the fighting ring,"

"And there's at least one femur in the cage closest to it on the left," John added helpfully.

Lestrade look stone faced, first at John, then at Sherlock, then he took a long, slow breath. "I will deal with you two, tomorrow," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Just leave."

John and Sherlock shared a glance, then moved as one towards the exit, barely stifling a round of giggles. Lestrade glared after them but refrained from commenting. Sadly, it would only encourage them…

* * *

Toby was returned to Lauren without incident. Well, there was a great deal of mutual glaring and silent threats before John intervened, shaking Lauren's hand and thanking her for her kind help. Laruen, while still visibly perturbed, was at least mollified enough to let them leave.

John sighed contentedly when he finally stepped through the door of his long-familiar flat. It hadn't been a long case by any standards, but it was always nice to come home again. He slid his jacket off and hung it on the stand by the door before rolling up his sleeves and turning to Sherlock.

"Come on, let me look you over, now that I'll actually be able to _see_ you properly."

Sherlock stepped back as John stepped forward. He hadn't even taken his coat off yet. John frowned and asked, "What's wrong?"

"You're in love with me, John," Sherlock replied softly, his face impassive.

Johns started. He hadn't expected Sherlock to comment on it after all these months… Of course he knew, Sherlock _always_ knew what other people tried to hide. But John had thought… He'd never acted on his feelings. Sherlock had made it very clear from the beginning that he was not interested in love. John hadn't been either, at least at first. He'd seen plenty of women, but they'd all come to the same conclusion.

 _Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man..._

 _It's heartwarming. You'll do anything for him!_

Eventually John had realized that they were all right, and he'd stopped fighting the inevitable. It might have been different if he'd always been dragged away from the women he tried to connect with, but he'd left voluntarily plenty of times. The longer he stayed with Sherlock the more John's protests about being dragged away were from a sense of obligation than any real desire to stay.

John knew he could never have Sherlock's heart, not the way Sherlock had his. He had fantasized about being with Sherlock, coming together in a more intimate way, but he knew it was all in his head. Any miracle or compromise he thought of wasn't the reality that was before him. He couldn't have Sherlock's heart as a lover, but he hoped to have it as a friend. That was probably when it all started: the moment John realized that Sherlock and inexplicably become his closest friend.

John realized that he still hadn't spoken. He licked his lips, an old nervous habit, and straightened. Yes, he was in love with Sherlock, desperately in love with him, but all he was asking for was his friendship. He'd made no demands of Sherlock, asked for nothing that Sherlock couldn't give. "What does that have to do with me checking your injuries?"

"It's distracting. I thought I could ignore it, but it's always in my way."

 _In my way._

The words seemed to hit John square in the chest. After Sherlock's fall from Bart's, the way John had waited for him, after _everything_ , John never expected to be treated so dismissively, not about something so important.

"I haven't done anything differently," John protested, "I've made a point of that."

Sherlock snorted and turned away, peering out the windows of their sitting room. " _Everything_ is different, John. It's in the way you act, speak, look at me, the way you make my tea."

"You don't want me to make your tea?" John asked warily. It felt like the ground was starting to slip away from underneath his feet.

"I don't want you _here_ anymore!" Sherlock clarified, turning from the windows to face John once more.

John took a step back, stricken. _Not_ live at 221 B anymore? No cases, no crazy hours, no Sherlock….?

"You want me to move out?" John said haltingly.

"Yes." Sherlock's reply was adamant.

"Because I love you?"

"Yes."

"And there's no compromise you might be willing to come to?" If Sherlock really wanted him gone…well John would have to find a way to deal with that, but not before putting up a fight for a partnership that meant so much to him.

"None at all." Sherlock hadn't yelled, but his word seemed to ring around the apartment with the depth of their finality.

Part of John wanted to turn an leave immediately, get to a safe place before he could even begin to examine the damage, part of him wanted to hit Sherlock for being so cold... the rest of him… John looked around 221 B wondering if this would really be the _last_ time he saw it. His throat constricted for a moment, cutting off his air, and his eyes burned. 221 B and Sherlock had been his _home_ for so many years…

John blinked and turned back to Sherlock. "Are you sure, Sherlock?" His voice wasn't pleading, but it was heavy with emotion.

"Very." Sherlock affirmed.

"I won't come back," John insisted, his own voice hardening with absolutely finality. He was willing to put himself out there, to lay himself open, knowing that rejection was a possibility, but he wouldn't do this again. Not with Sherlock. Not after such an abrupt and thoughtless dismissal after all the years they'd spent together.

"I know," Sherlock affirmed, his voice and face unchanging.

John nodded, swallowed, and made to turn for the stairs that would lead him up to his room, when he paused and turned back again. "I hope you never regret it." Heartbreak was the last thing he wanted for Sherlock, even now.

He turned back around and made his way upstairs to his room. As he packed John focused intensely on the details. What should he take with him, and what should he leave? How should he best fold the fabric of his shirt to maximize the space he did have. Where in his luggage should he hide his gun?

John had never been a materialistic person, and in the end, everything he felt he needed fit in one large duffle, which he slung over his shoulder, and two other large bags he could carry in his hands. Traveling light had helped him move easily from place to place in the army; he never thought he'd need to use those skills to leave Sherlock... He shifted from foot to foot, testing the balance, and nodded to himself.

It was time.

The steps creaked under the extra weight as John made his way down them, but he stayed focused on the task in front of him. One foot in front of the other, find a decent but not too expensive hotel, and then...no. He had to think one step at a time, or John knew he might not make it out of the flat tonight, and he most definitely could not stay..

John paused at the foot of the stairs. Sherlock was still brooding by the windows, shrouded in his long dark Belstaff, wearing it like some sort of personal armor. John took a deep, slow breath, in and out, forcing control over muscles that quivered in pain and uncertainty. One step at a time.

He looked to Sherlock's face, but his long time flatmate wouldn't turn to face him. Sherlock was either too deep in thought to hear or see John, or he didn't want to be bothered with John's emotions... Still, Sherlock had said his piece, and John would say his. He'd already said most of it, really, just one thing left.

" _Goodbye_ , Sherlock." Again John's voice was thick with emotion, but he didn't try to hide it. Sherlock knew where he stood, and John wasn't ashamed of how he felt.

There was no response.

John blinked rapidly and turned to face the door. He had to keep moving, get to a hotel, to safer ground. His heart thundered in his chest, and his hands shook as he made his way down the steps of 221 B for the last time.

The _last_ time...

Deep breath. In. Out. Focus. John's eyes were already searching for a cab before he reached back to pull the front door closed. He had to get to a hotel, secure a room, find a safe place to land... someplace far away from here...


	3. A Fool and His Case

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^ Thank you to Brown Eyed Girl-62, Sandylee007, sweetmarly, and guest for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

* * *

Chapter Two: A Fool and His Case

Sherlock leaned away from the microscope to make a small notation on the pad of paper just beside him. His experiment was going very well, but it was important to watch it closely or he'd have to start all over again; the variables were just too delicate.

Quiet. It had been so blissfully quiet. He hadn't had a quiet stretch between cases like this in years. But it wasn't the bad kind of quiet. It was a clam easy quiet that let him _think_. No background noise to filter out, no conversations to ignore, and no lingering gazes that seemed to burn the skin they rested on.

It had only been a week since his last case, as short as it was, but he'd had plenty of experiments to keep him occupied, and nothing to distract him from them. He would need a case soon, but they came in regularly these days, so he wasn't concerned. He leaned towards the microscope once more, then leaned back again, rubbing his eyes. They were dry and irritated. Sherlock reached back to the kitchen drawer just to the left of the sink and pawed around for saline solution which he had kept there... but he didn't find it. Instead he felt only neatly organized utensils.

Irritated, Sherlock went through the bother of turning around and peered in the drawer, but there was no saline. He slammed the drawer shut with a growl and peered around the flat. This was _John's_ fault. Where would _he_ keep the saline? Sherlock concentrated, bringing up and sorting through conversations he's shared with his former flatmate, searching for the data he needed...

" _Sherlock, you need to_ _ **organize**_ _this flat! Why do you think I thought it was being used for storage when I first saw it_?" John had reached over to an already open kitchen drawer and pulled out Sherlock's saline. " _And you can start by keeping medical supplies in the medicine cabinet_!" He'd stalked out of the room then, towards the loo. He'd paused before he got there and added, " _And your eyes work_ _ **fine**_ _. If you'd get some sleep every other day they might not protest so much_!" John had turned back around then and tromped the rest of the way to the loo.

Sherlock blinked open his irritated eyes and rubbed them again. Had it been several days since he'd last slept? He'd lost count. A wicked smirk grew on his lips at the realization. It had been so _long_ since he'd been able to so that! He practically skipped to the loo, giddy to have his focus back where it _belonged_.

Sure enough, the saline was in the cabinet above the sink. Sherlock snatched it up and strolled back to the kitchen with smug satisfaction. He paused at the table and tilted his face up to administer the drops so that his eyes would behave. Once he was done, Sherlock tossed the saline back into its _rightful_ drawer with a flourish before seating himself in front of the microscope once more.

He hummed quietly to himself as he meticulously observed the microscopic world before him, watching his influence take over it. When he paused to make another notation, his left hand groped uselessly in the empty air beside the microscope. Sherlock blinked, and looked over at his outstretched hand. Where was his tea? It was _always_ just to the left of his microscope. The difference was so jarring that it took him a moment to remember that _he_ hadn't made his own tea in a long time.

 _John_ had been the one making his tea lately.

Sherlock stared blankly at the empty space for a moment before growling in frustration and rising _again_ in order to make his own tea. The kettle and the tea were in a lower cabinet to the left of the stove. John had taken to keeping many things he frequently used there, hoping to keep them out of Sherlock's experimental reach. Sherlock smirked to himself as he filled the kettle with water, cataloging all the experiments he could wreak upon it. There was no one here to stop him now, after all.

He was just reaching down to retrieve a suitable mug when his phone trilled. Sherlock set the mug down on the counter with a sharp clatter and laboriously fished his phone out of his jacket pocket.

"What?!"

"Fine, don't work the case then. I really don't have time for this today, Sherlock." There was a rustle of fabric as Lestrade undoubtedly peered around a heavy set of drapes. "It's all I can do to keep the media circus from breaking through the front door."

Sherlock perked up, his tea, and his experiment, forgotten. "Case?" Lestrade wasn't lying about the media circus. His dismissive tone was part of a reverse psychology ploy he'd attempted in most of his recent cases. Naturally, the ploy had utterly failed in its purpose. Sherlock was _always_ able to tell which were the fascinating cases, and which weren't.

So far this one sounded mildly promising. Granted public opinion was grievously flawed in identifying what was _truly_ interesting, but that combined with Lestrade's poorly veiled effort to bring Sherlock on made it more likely to be interesting. The reverberation of Lestrade's voice and the sounds of the drapes he'd pulled aside let Sherlock know the case involved a rich family, possibly a politically connected one as well.

"Yes, Sherlock, a _case_! You still work those, don't you?!" Lestrade was exceptionally terse given his long experience working with Sherlock, another point in favor of a good case.

"What's the address?" Sherlock asked, already walking into the sitting room and reaching for his Belstaff. Lestrade barked the address at him, and Sherlock memorized it. He terminated the call, slid his phone back in his jacket pocket and slipped his arms through the sleeves of his Belstaff. Instinctively he turned his head over his shoulder and yelled, "John!"

Sherlock stilled and blinked.

 _John_.

John was gone, and Sherlock knew he was better off for it! The sooner he broke bad habits the better. Sherlock finished pulling his coat on with a rough flourish and practically leapt for the stairs.

* * *

The address Lestrade had given him turned out to be a large, elegant town house, close enough to the heart of the city to be convenient for any travel within the city, but in a neighborhood that did its best to make anyone forced to work for a living feel uneasy. Every building on the street held elegant architecture and foreboding gates.

The police had done a moderately competent job of beating back the swarm of paparazzi, but the size and volume of the crowd was almost palpable. When Sherlock stepped out of the cab the flashes were blinding, but he had never been someone who was easily intimidated.

Shouted questions filled the air as Sherlock strolled up to the front door, and, nodding to Donovan, who stood guard at the door, reached for the handle. He had just begun to turn the handle when a single query broke through the ambient cacophony:

"Mr. Holmes, _why_ is Dr. Watson not with you?"

Once the questions was out there, more followed.

"Is he ill?"

"Have you had a falling out?"

"Has Dr. Watson gone into hiding?"

"Is his absence part of another case?"

Sherlock's gaze narrowed, but his hesitation on the threshold was only milliseconds long, and had hopefully gone unnoticed.

Lestrade met him just inside the foyer, a curious expression washing over his previous frown as his eyes met Sherlock's. "Where's-"

"Do you have a case for me, or don't you?!" Sherlock snapped, cutting off the question before it could be properly voiced. John and he were _not_ attached at the hip!

Lestrade raised his eyebrows warily, but had the good sense to start presenting the facts of the case without further comment.

"This is the house of Mr. Andrew Wallingford. Approximately two months ago, Mr. Wallingford received bypass surgery at Charing Cross Hospital. His recovery was going well, until two weeks ago. He developed a high fever, upset stomach, and intense joint pain. He went for a follow up with his doctor and was prescribed antibiotics. At first he seemed to recover, but after his follow up visit his symptoms relapsed, dramatically worse than they had been before. He spent the last three days admitted to intensive care, and he passed away this morning."

"And we are meeting at his town house because you suspect foul play," Sherlock surmised.

Lestrade shrugged. "He was wealthy and active in politics, that and he was only forty, with a relatively unremarkable medical history; he should have recovered smoothly."

Sherlock glanced sidelong at Lestrade. "Has Mycroft put you up to this?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade sighed, exasperated, "I'd rather be safe than sorry. Something doesn't feel right."

Sherlock made a small non-committal noise, his eyes moving over everything he could see from just inside the foyer. The ceilings were high, arching delicately overhead with intricate molding adornments. The walls were paneled in wood, and the floor was marble. A long staircase rose up from the entrance hall to the second floor. The walls held skillful oil paintings tastefully displayed and lit for viewing. This wasn't so much a home as it was a place of business, but that was often the case for men such as Mr. Wallingford, the only privacy they could expect was in their personal rooms, and even that was limited.

"I presume the family is here?"

Lestrade nodded. "They're gathered in the living room. They requested you, actually. They suspect it was hospital error."

"Find a room where I can speak to them individually," Sherlock commanded, striding off into the entrance hall and turning left. Lestrade rolled his eyes and went to secure a room. It was doubtful if Sherlock would even use the specific room Lestrade selected for him, this was probably just busy work. Sherlock could walk into almost any building and find his way around with uncanny ease, but that was just part of how he operated.

* * *

Sherlock was relatively silent when he entered the sitting room, but he was immediately noticed. A middle aged Caucasian women with brown frizzy hair leapt up from the sofa and hurried over to him. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Homes," she enthused, reaching forward to grab his hands. "We know you can get to the bottom of this!"

Sherlock nodded and pointedly withdrew his hands. "Mrs. Wallingford, I presume?" It wasn't a presumption, really. Her clothing was expensive but poorly styled. Her hair was utterly untamed, and an elegantly cut diamond of at least two carats in a platinum band rested prominently on her left hand. Her body was still slim, and the way she walked broadcasted her history as an athlete, most likely a sprinter. She made an effort to smooth her clothing once her hands were free, demonstrating some concern for her physical appearance.

Mr. Wallingford had done something nearly unthinkable in rich and well connected families. He had married for love…well, lust anyway. Most likely Mrs. Wallingford was a woman from a middle class family that had just enough connections to make the marriage permissible. She likely had a stylist and several other staff dedicated to making her as refined and 'presentable' as possible. Whether Mr. Wallingford had continued to love his wife or not would need to wait for the examination of the body, but his wife had clearly loved him.

Her weding ring was in immaculate condition, but that was to be expected in any wealthy family. Married parties in any family that felt themselves to be influential and powerful would keep up appearances, regardless of how they actually felt. No, the tell for a happy marriage in a person of influence was the skin underneath their ring, and Sherlock could see a distinct tan line and impression in the skin when Mrs. Wallingford brought her hands together and began to fiddle with her wedding band.

Sherlock lifted his gaze from Mrs. Wallingford and scanned the room; it contained three other people. There were two reasonably tall, mildly athletic males in their mid-twenties, and a slender dark hared young woman who was approximately eighteen. The men were not twins, but they bore a striking resemblance to each other. Each wore a personally tailored suit and an expensive tie, and each had a clean shaven face with neatly trimmed brown hair that looked quite a bit more manageable than their mother's. The biggest difference between them was that one of them, most likely the oldest and heir presumptive, had a much harsher expression, and the other looked more sad.

The brothers stood by the fireplace staring at Sherlock in silence while their mother prattled on and on about useless details. The young woman, meanwhile was sat on the sofa, looking down, with her hands folded in her lap. She was quiet in a way that had more to do with personality than situation. Good. The quiet ones were usually the most observant. Sherlock's gaze flickered to her elder brothers, who had, once or twice, glanced meaningfully in her direction. Unfortunately, the quiet ones also tended to be poorly treated. Now that he had family dynamics out of the way, it was time to get to the important details.

"I will speak with each of you individually," Sherlock declared, cutting off Mrs. Wallingford mid-sentence. To prevent any delay he quickly added, "I will speak with Ms. Wallingford first." Sherlock leaned forward slightly, offering his arm to the young woman. It was an archaic gesture, but one that she was likely to find charming, and thus she would be more relaxed.

Ms. Wallingford lifted her eyes to his, spied his proffered arm and smiled slightly. Her gaze started to shift to her brothers, then halted, and fixed on her mother instead. Mrs. Wallingford nodded and reached her arms out to her daughter, pulling her from her seat. "Yes, come along, dear. Mr. Holmes will help us get to the bottom of this, I'm certain. He is very thorough."

Ms. Wallingford placed her hand in the crook of Sherlock's arm and he lead her from the room before her brothers could properly form a protest. Lestrade met them outside and ushered them into another room five doors down and to the left.

Once they were alone they seated themselves on opposite sofas, facing each other. Sherlock sat forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands steepled in front of his chin. Ms. Wallingford sat as she had before, with her hands folded delicately in her lap, her gaze fixed on them. Sherlock let the silence build between them for a long moment before he spoke.

"Would you like some tea?"

Ms. Wallingford peeked up at him from beneath her long black hair, her brown eyes sparkling in amusement even as her face remained impassive.

"This is my home; I should be offering _you_ tea."

A wry smile made itself known on Sherlock's lips. "As you may have surmised, Ms. Wallingford, I do not play by the rules."

A small, reserved smiled curled the edges of her lips, and Sherlock knew he had pleased her. Good. She was so shy she wasn't likely to say anything if she wasn't comfortable.

"Tell me about your father, Evelyn," he prompted.

Her dark brown eyes widened dramatically and her mouth fell open slightly.

"How-?" She began, but Sherlock quickly interjected.

"I read your name beneath your portrait in the hall," Sherlock clarified. "It really doesn't do you justice."

Evelyn ducked her head for a moment, a blush sweeping over her pale cheeks, and Sherlock smiled. He had made her comfortable, amazed her, and flattered her. She would tell him everything she could.

After a short moment she licked her lips, just as John was in the habit of doing when he was thinking. Then, she spoke. "I didn't really _know_ father very well. Most of what I do know I learned from eavesdropping or piecing things together."

"What did you piece together?" Sherlock asked gently. If he pushed too hard she would only shut down.

Evelyn looked up again and said, "He was in trouble. I don't know why, or about what, but he was worried. He started coming home late, even for him. He never really listened to me to begin with, but he wasn't even trying to pretend to anymore." She trailed off for a moment, glanced at the door, then added in a voice close to a whisper. "He was fighting with mother."

"He didn't usually fight with your mother?"

Evelyn shook her head emphatically. "No!" Then she blushed at her outburst and added, in a more normal tone, "They did argue occasionally, everyone does, but not like this. Father always spent Saturday nights with us, but the last few months he stopped all of a sudden. Mother knows how demanding Father's business is, and that he needs to spend long hours at work, but she wanted us to be a family still. That's why she always insisted on having him home on Saturday nights."

"What was your father's business?" Sherlock prompted.

Evelyn frowned and stared at the carpet for a moment before lifting her gaze back to his. "Something to do with investments? He's explained it before, so have my brothers, but I don't really have a good head for math."

That was obvious. The slight discolorations around her fingers declared her to be an artist, probably a painter. She wouldn't have done the family portraits, naturally, that was always a commissioned project, and her work was likely a good deal less formal. The higher ups in the family probably hoped to have her quietly married off soon.

Sherlock meticulously solicited information about Mr. Wallingford's declining health through his final day, but Evelyn added nothing that he didn't already know. When he had concluded his interview Sherlock stood, held his arm out to her once more, and escorted her back into the family sitting room.

The moment they entered the space the eldest brother, Bryan if the name beneath his own portrait in the hall was t be believed, stalked forward from the fireplace, and crowded Sherlock's personal space.

"I don't approve of your methods, Mr. Holmes! Why not question us all at once?! My father is _dead_ and I need you to find answers, not waste your time questioning the victims!"

Sherlock, his eyes never leaving Bryan's, released his grip on Evelyn, allowing her to slink back towards the sofa she had been formerly occupying, where her mother now sat. "If a murder has taken place then there are secrets that will be better uncovered if involved parties have less time to generate a moderately cohesive _lie_."

There wasn't enough evidence to prove it _was_ murder, but it could be. Sherlock hoped so, and he hoped it went beyond the conventional motivations and suspects. Non-conventional murders were always the _best_.

Bryan's face flushed a livid red and his jaw muscles clenched. "We have NOTHING to lie about!"

Mrs. Wallingford reached out her arm and opened her mouth, but before she could calm her son, Sherlock gestured out the open sitting room door. "Then you will have no objections to being questioned next."

Bryan huffed in irritation and strode out of the room at a pace that was almost a jog. Sherlock, unperturbed, closed the sitting room door. Bryan had halted a few paces from the door, but he had not turned to face Sherlock, and his whole body was rigid. Sherlock strolled past him at a deliberately slow pace. Only when he had reached the door of the room set aside for them and opened it did Sherlock hear Bryan's rapid footsteps. Bryan was fit and long legged so he nearly brushed past Sherlock as they entered the room, despite his silent protest of remaining by the sitting room until the last possible moment.

Sherlock sat calmly on his sofa and watched Bryan pace the floor. He was young, ambitious, and honorable. He took great pride in his father's work, and saw his father's untimely death as a betrayal or an attack. This much was obvious from the suit Bryan wore, to the way he spoke and held himself. The fact that Sherlock had agitated him only magnified these traits.

"Your sister mentioned that your father was an investment banker," Sherlock began.

"Did she?" Bryan scoffed. "Nice of her to actually remember the term for once, but you should have known that from the police report or debriefing."

"What was he afraid of?" Sherlock pressed, leaning forward into his usual, thinking pose.

"He wasn't afraid of anything!" Bryan snapped. "Business has risks, but you manage them, _that's_ what he did!"

"How did he manage them?" Sherlock pressed.

Bryan's face flushed anew, and a twitch had developed by his right eye. His silence lasted just a moment too long. "My father's business dealings are _none_ of your business."

Sherlock leaned forward even more. "You don't know, do you?" Bryan whirled around, his jaw clenched shut and his hands balled into fists at his side, looking very much like a petulant child. Sherlock smiled and pressed on. "You've been well educated, you're of the appropriate age to start taking on some real responsibility, but you haven't yet, have you? Daddy didn't trust-"

He'd known the blow was coming, but it was stronger than he had expected, and Sherlock's deflection was only partially effective. It was more a graze than a direct hit, but Bryan's family ring nicked the skin of Sherlock's cheek, and he could feel a small trickle of blood welling at the injury.

"Attacking the police consultant will not bode well for you in the investigation," Sherlock murmured. He hardly needed to speak up, Bryan was still pressed menacingly over his personal space.

Bryan shoved Sherlock violently into the sofa once more before storming out of the room with a gruff, "We're done here!"

Sherlock stood, adjusted his suit, and used a small kerchief to dab the blood from his cheek. It wouldn't conceal the injury, but that was to his advantage. A visible mark would certainly win Mrs. Wallingford's sympathy and, more importantly, it would help soften the younger brother, Nathan.

Sherlock strolled down the corridor at the same easy pace he had used when walking behind Bryan. When he arrived back at the sitting room Bryan had both hands braced against the mantel piece and was glowering furiously at the embers burning there. Mrs. Wallingford, who had been leaning towards her eldest son, speaking quietly with him, turned and gasped when she saw the small cut on Sherlock's cheek. She whirled immediately on her son.

"Bryan?! Why would you do such a thing?!"

"He's supposed to be helping, but he's poking around in all the wrong places!" Bryan ground out, his gaze never wavering from the dying fire.

"I understand that tempers are running high at this delicate time, Mrs. Wallingford," Sherlock soothed. It was tedious placating the family, but wealthy and powerful families had many secrets and they were used to keeping them. His best chance to gain ground was to keep them amiable. Having Bryan angry with him was advantageous because it kept him off-balance, but if they were all angered or felt threatened it would cost him time he didn't have.

"I'll speak with you next," Nathan volunteered, rising from the seat he had taken beside his sister.

Sherlock nodded and gestured with his arm. "After you." They walked in silence the short distance to the study Lestrade had commandeered on Sherlock's orders. Nathan was more muscular than his brother. His movements, and his slight tan indicated he was a true athlete, probably rugby or football. Nathan was the second son, so while he had received education paralleling his brother, he was not expected to be the heir unless his brother met an untimely end, and so felt less pressure than Bryan. He likely wasn't even truly expected to join the family business if he didn't want to, which left him more time to pursue his own interests. He was a middle child and thus, a natural negotiator. Even so, he came from a family with an old-world reputation and high standards. Excelling in team sports was a natural by-product of such an upbringing. Nathan had likely been on a professional team until very recently; his tan was starting to fade at the edges... perhaps he had left or taken a leave of absence from his athletic career when tensions began to mount at home.

Nathan seated himself calmly on the sofa opposite Sherlock and ran his fingers over his own cheek, mirroring the location of Sherlock's injury. "I'm sorry about my brother. He's tightly wound, and the thought of stepping into our father's shoes on top of such an unexpected loss..." Nathan trailed off, his gaze shifting to the floor. He swallowed thickly before making himself meet Sherlock's eyes once more. He loved his father, they all did in their own way. The Wallingford's were a surprisingly well adjusted family, all things considered. But even well adjusted family members cracked under the right pressure...

"What was your father _really_ doing before he died?" Sherlock asked.

Nathan sighed long and loud, looking up at the ceiling. " _That_ is the question, isn't it?"

Sherlock hadn't excepted more answers about Mr. Wallingford from his second son, not when the first and heir knew so little and Nathan had only recently turned his full attention back home. Still, Nathan's response made much of his character clear to Sherlock. He was more level headed than Bryan, due in part to the limited pressure of being a second son in a prestigious family, but he was sharp enough to see that more than everyday business had occupied Mr. Wallingford's last weeks...

It was becoming readily apparent that Sherlock would need to look elsewhere for the details of Mr. Wallingford's secret. It would be foolish not to be thorough, however. The family was on edge already, and he had done everything in his power to maximize the advantage. _If_ there was any more to learn here, _now_ was the time to do it.

Sherlock didn't want to put Mrs. Wallingford on her guard by returning too soon, so he made a point of ruminating useless details of the case which only appeared important, for at least twenty minutes, before switching Nathan's company out for hers.

Mrs. Wallingford mangled a handkerchief between her two hands as she sat across from Sherlock. Her grief was genuine, that had already been established. There was no point or advantage in wasting time at this juncture, so Sherlock was direct. "What changed in your husband, Mrs. Wallingford?"

The question brought forth a small flood of tears before she managed to collect herself enough to answer. "Is it that obvious?" After a small pause she added, "Do you think it has to do with Andrew's death?"

"It might if there was deliberate murder as opposed to medical neglect."

Mrs. Wallingford's eyes watered again. "The world's come to such sorry state, hasn't it? We can't trust our doctors, our friends, our neighbors..." She trailed off but the idea of being unable to trust one's spouse was heavily implied.

"It was so different when we were first married," Mrs. Wallingford pressed on, "I helped Andrew at the office, organizing the filing, supervising the secretarial staff. He didn't need the extra help, but I was good at keeping the minutia organized and the staff underneath Andrew and his colleges in line. He could trust me, and I helped free up more of his time."

"It was always that way, until recently," Sherlock surmised, and Mrs. Wallingford nodded sadly. She might not be schooled in old world politics but she _was_ organized. Sherlock had surreptitiously peered into her purse during his many comings and goings and he highly suspected her wallet was alphabetized. She had a good sense of accounting too, as Mr. Wallingford wouldn't have tolerated her frequent efforts in his business if that weren't the case. She had probably grown up expecting to work for a living, unlike many of the women Mr. Wallingford could have married, and Mrs. Wallingford had made a point of doing so. Not being forced to work, however, had allowed Mrs. Wallingford to have an active hand in raising her three children as well; they all exhibited mannerisms and expressions which mirrored her own. She was certainly no murderess...

Mrs. Wallingford began to shake her head violently, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, I don't know what changed. Andrew wouldn't breathe a word about it... That was the worst part. Andrew always told me _everything..._ " She paused to pluck another Kleenex from the box on the low table between their two sofas. "It was bad, though, whatever it was." Something in the timber of voice changed, catching Sherlock's attention. Mrs. Wallingford looked up again and their eyes locked. "The way Andrew looked at me, in those last week's was the same way he looked at me when we thought I might miscarry Evelyn."

Under the presumption that Mr. Wallingford had loved his wife, and that evidence was slowly mounting even if his left ring finger would hold the final proof, Sherlock could surmise that his difficulties were grievous and personal. His family was tediously normal, and his parents were long dead, taking any objections about their son's marriage with them. Personal, but not personal... This case had potential.

"Mrs. Wallingford, I would like to examine your husband's body before the funeral. My review shouldn't delay anything." Normal Sherlock wouldn't bother with such pleasantries, but being that the Wallingford's were so well connected politically, and so wealthy monetarily, any other option would be more tedious. Sherlock could play _this_ particular game, and do it well, he simply didn't care to.

Mrs. Wallingford's eyes were large and round as she nodded at him. "Of course. Whatever you think will help."

Sherlock nodded and thanked her, escorted her back to the sitting room, and only just managed not to roll his eyes when the door shut behind him as he made his way back to Lestrade. The preliminaries were over at last.

Lestrade stepped meaningfully in front of him when Sherlock tried to brush past him. "Nope, not this time, Sherlock. _Where_ are you going?"

Sherlock sighed and fixed Lestrade with a sharp glare. "To examine the body. I'm done here."

Lestrade shook his head. "No, Sherlock, not until tomorrow morning."

"That's _hours_ away, Lestrade," Sherlock complained. " _Wasted time_!"

"It's not wasted," Lestrade reasoned, "the medical examiner is performing his own autopsy as we speak."

Sherlock fidgeted at the news, trying to get around the Detective Inspector with renewed vigor. "He's only going to contaminate the evidence!"

"Sherlock, Mr. Wallingford only died _this morning_! The family requested the autopsy, and I'm not about to let you interrupt it." Lestrade fixed him with a firm expression that he could only have picked up from Mycroft. "You'll get your turn _tomorrow_."

Sherlock would have pressed his luck, Lestrade was as easy to get around as any other member of the New Scotland Yard, if only he could be assured this wouldn't set Mycroft on him. The two had been seeing each other for several years now, and this was a case of enough importance that Greg would call Mycroft if he was needed to keep Sherlock in check...

Sherlock scowled, roughly jerked his arm out of Lestrade's grasp, and straightened his suit.

"Go _home_ Sherlock," Lestrade continued firmly. "You can't break into the autopsy today, even _if_ you manage to convince John to help you try."

Lestrade's voice was warm when he said John's name, and Sherlock bristled at the implication that John was an expected part of his life. He had been who he was for a long time before John Watson ever came on scene.

"If you'd known shagging my brother would give you a perceived edge in _controlling_ me, would you have started earlier?" Lestrade gaped at him for a moment, but Sherlock, collected his Belstaff from the hall closet and pressed on. "The body should be ready and waiting. I want him transferred from Charing Cross Hospital to Barts by 9am, they have a more comprehensive work space." And with a flourish of said long black coat, he was gone.

Lestrade blinked thoughtfully at the closed front door. He was very familiar with Sherlock's cutting and heartless comments, if they weren't deductions they were calculated barbs, attempts to wrench open a person so he could get to the truth of a case. This though...something about this felt different.

Mycroft had said very recently that he hadn't worried about Sherlock half as much as he used to since 'Dr. Watson established himself at 221 B' and Greg had readily agreed John had been a fixture in Sherlock's life for so long that Greg had almost forgotten what it was like before, chasing Sherlock into filthy houses, dragging him to the hospital, and waiting in utter silence with Mycroft, listening to the heart monitors lonely beeping. Lestrade frowned and shook himself, unsettled by the long buried memories resurrected with such sharp clarity. He pulled out his phone and immediately sent John a series of texts.

 _First time in a long time I haven't seen you at a crime scene, mate._

 _Sherlock's on his way back home... I hope._

 _Try to keep him from climbing the walls...or shooting them if you can._

 _I'll make sure the body is ready for examination first thing tomorrow._

Greg never received a reply, but Lestrade wasn't quick to panic. He knew that reigning in Sherlock Holmes when he was on the scent was more than a full time job, it was damn near impossible...

* * *

Sherlock, having resolved to spend his next few hours hacking everything he could find about Mr. Wallingford's business associates, burst through the front door of 221 Baker Street. He leapt up the stairs and swept into the sitting room. He was almost upon the desk by the windows before he realized there was no laptop waiting there for him.

 _John's_ laptop used to be the one he used.

Sherlock sighed in irritation and changed course to his bedroom. He did have his own laptop, using other peoples was just easier. Sherlock scooped said laptop and charger up from the flotsam and jetsam on his bedroom floor and headed to the kitchen; it had the best lighting.

The kitchen was nearly the end of his laptop.

Sherlock's feet hit cold, water and slipped on the tile, a misstep compounded by the tiny shards of ceramic, leftovers from a broken mug which also littered the floor. Sherlock cursed softly as his ankle twisted under him, but he kept his balance. Gingerly, he set his laptop down on the table and bent to mop up the water; an electrical short would only result in more wasted time.

Sherlock recalled as he blotted up the worst of the water, he had been about to make tea when Lestrade had called. He had left the kettle on. It had shrilled so long that Mrs. Hudson, ever the 'concerned landlady' walked upstairs to see what was the matter. Her footprints were clearly visible in the carpet, the indentations sharp enough that they had to have been made today. Upon finding 221 B empty, she had made to lift the kettle off the stove. Most of the water had burned away at that point and the kettle was burning hot. The heat jolted her, causing her to fling the kettle into the sink, where it now rested, spilling the remainder of its water on the floor and knocking the mug which Sherlock had left on the counter to the floor.

She had cleaned up, she always did, despite the fact that she 'wasn't his housekeeper,' but she was getting older and had missed the smaller fragments and a slick of water that had made its way nearly under the table, just beside Sherlock's usual chair.

That sorted, Sherlock pushed his fatigue aside, plugged in his laptop, and took a seat. It was time for the real work to begin.


	4. Lonely Hearts

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **NOTE: This chapter is edited for Fanfiction,net, which does not allow explicit scenes. If you want to see the explicit version, please visit my account on Archive of Our Own: /users/Dark3Star/works**

 **Thank you to Sandylee007, sweetmarly, and Brown Eyed Girl-62 for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

* * *

Chapter Three: Lonely Hearts

John looked around at the bare bland walls of his motel room and stood. He had to get out. He'd never been claustrophobic, but the space suddenly felt suffocating. He pulled on his shoes and jacket, checked his wallet for the key card, and he was out the door. He left his phone. He hadn't turned it on since that last series of texts from Greg.

 _First time in a long time I haven't seen you at a crime scene, mate._

 _Sherlock's on his way back home... I hope._

 _Try to keep him from climbing the walls...or shooting them if you can._

 _I'll make sure the body is ready for examination first thing tomorrow._

John drew a sharp lungful of early winter air as he stepped outside. Sherlock had asked him leave, broken their partnership and their friendship in one ruthless blow, and it still didn't seem real…

Sherlock had been right, of course. John was in love with him. He had been for years, even if it had taken him almost an equal number of years to figure it out. There was no sudden realization, just a slowly dawning understanding of exactly who his heart belonged to.

John hadn't avoided telling Sherlock out of fear of their relationship ending; he figured Sherlock knew, had known when John first started to fall. Even so, Sherlock had made his opinion clear from the very beginning. He was married to his work. Romance wasn't something he did. John had accepted that and attempted to change nothing in their relationship.

" _It's distracting. I thought I could ignore it, but it's always in my way."_

John almost flinched at the memory. His efforts had been an abysmal failure, apparently. It was true he stared too long sometimes, that he had wondered… That was natural for someone in love though, and it had gone on so long that John had been utterly blindsided by Sherlock's abrupt dismissal.

It _hurt_.

His whole body ached with a pain so sharp he was almost numb. John had, somewhat unknowingly, allowed himself to be vulnerable. He had opened himself up to Sherlock, completely. It wasn't that they had many heartfelt discussions, or painstakingly confided their most painful secrets with each other; they hadn't had to.

From the moment they met there had been a magnetic connection that John hadn't been able to deny. Things had escalated exceedingly quickly, John still wasn't able to say exactly _why_ he'd shot that cabbie, but he never regretted it. Despite all the terrible fights, the ridiculous hours, the interrupted dates and work, John had been having the most fun he'd ever had.

Now he was paying the price.

He'd allowed Sherlock into his heart, and built a connection so strong John wasn't sure he _could_ rid himself of it. That might be why it had taken him so long to admit the truth to himself in the first place. The depth of the love he felt came with the knowledge that he was utterly defenseless against Sherlock and the blow that had been struck was devastating.

221 B was _home_. John wasn't sure any other place he might live _could_ have that title, but he had to try. What choice did he have? Sherlock was gone, irrevocably. There was no way John could willingly open himself up to that potential threat to his sanity again, he wasn't even sure he could survive this current loss. It had taken everything John had just to survive Sherlock's fall… But John Watson was a survivor; always had been, always would be. He would find a way.

John stopped and forced himself to look up to see where his feet had taken him. He was in front of a pub. Harry's wasted face flashed in his mind, and John shook his head. Alcohol was not the solution… but two drinks wouldn't kill him. He had drunk to excess once or twice in the past, but never when he was upset. By the time John was of drinking age he'd imposed a limit of two drinks, and two drinks only, when he was upset.

John nodded to himself, resolved, and stepped inside the pub. It was a nice place with a smooth wooden floor and a large stone fireplace. It had a crowd, but not a rough looking one, and John could smell food as well as alcohol in the air. John lifted himself onto a stool by the bar and ordered a stout. While he waited he helped himself to some of the nuts from a nearby bowl. He knew they couldn't be sanitary, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

How long had it been? John knew it must have been days since he'd left 221 B, but he wasn't sure how many. At first he'd been doggedly focused on making it to a motel. It wasn't quite as dreary as the bedsit he'd been in when he was first invalided home, but only just. His memory after that was…fuzzy. John didn't cry often, but that first night he'd cried himself sick. There had been hours of daytime television and too long spent in bed without moving. He'd called in sick to the surgery. He finally had the privacy he needed to start licking his wounds, and he hadn't been about to waste it. It was after John had finally convinced himself to shower and put on fresh clothes that the room had started to feel confining.

His stout was placed before him and John sipped it gratefully. He didn't really think it would take the edge off, or help numb the pain a bit, this pain, as he knew from bitter experience, was too big for a pint or a dozen to make any difference, but it was something to do. Two drink limit.

John was aware of another man slipping onto the stool to his right, but he didn't look up. He was aware of an expensive looking suit in his peripheral vision before a deep, posh voice murmured, "Birthday cake please."

John looked up at the stranger, confused. This pup _did_ serve food, and he supposed they could serve cake, but the man was alone, he didn't look like he was celebrating a birthday...

The man, seeming to feel John's gaze, glanced over at John and smiled. "Want one?"

"A slice of cake?" John asked haltingly.

The stranger chuckled, his voice was a deep baritone, but not quite the same tenor as Sherlock's. He was indeed in an expensive and immaculately tailored suit. He had warm amber eyes that sparkled with laughter, which rested behind the small rectangular lenses of his glasses. His hair was black and straight, falling just past his ears. It was longer than what was traditional considered professional, but it was neatly trimmed, and suited the overall refined image.

"It's a shot," the stranger clarified.

"What's in it?" John asked dubiously.

The stranger shrugged. "Sugar on the rim, sometimes colored, 1/2 shot hazelnut liqueur, one shot of vodka, and a lemon meant to be bitten into after the shot."

John pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment, then replied, "Technically that's more than one drink."

The stranger chuckled again. "So it is. Would you like to try one?

John glanced at his pint which was still mostly intact, then back at the stranger and nodded. "Sure."

The stranger leaned over the bar slightly and changed his order to, "Two birthday cakes, please." When he leaned back into his seat he turned to face John and extended his hand "My name's Marcus. Pleased to meet you."

John reached forward and shook hands, tempted to smile for the first time in days. Marcus's friendly attitude was infectious. "John."

"John," Marcus repeated with a smile. "What brings you to London, John. Are you a native?"

"Born and bred," John agreed. "Except for my time in her majesty's service I've never left."

"Thank you for your service," Marcus replied smoothly. "You're a braver man than me. The only battlefield I can handle is the family I work for."

John raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"

Marcus shrugged. "They're all politicians, sort of. The youngest son doesn't really want to join the race. I can't say I blame him, but he'd be good at it. I help the family manage their day to day business."

"Politics is a battlefield I have no taste for," John replied, "so we're even there."

"What do you do now that you're back?" Marcus asked, leaning his chin against the palm of one hand.

"Same thing I did in the service, I'm a doctor. I work in a small surgery now, but I'm hoping to expand my hours." A dark look crossed John's face when he thought of exactly _why_ he had so much time on his hands. He forced himself to refocus. "Do you come here often?"

Marcus smirked and leaned forward, encroaching on John's personal space. "Why? Trying to pick me up, doctor?"

John's eyes widened and he flushed, realizing how he must have sounded. "No! I, uh, I just meant this doesn't seem like a politically focused place."

Marcus chuckled and nodded, but he did not lean back. "Exactly. When I have a night off, I don't want to run into anything remotely resembling my work."

At that moment, their drinks arrived, forcing Marcus to retreat from John's personal space. Marcus thanked the barman and picked up his shot before glancing at John. "Ready?"

John actually smiled as he picked up his drink. "Yes."

As one they threw back their drinks, then bit into their respective lemons. John hummed appreciatively as he set the shot glass down. "I didn't' believe you, but you're right. It tastes just like cake."

Marcus grinned at him. "Glad you like it."

The shot was starting to hit John already; he hadn't had much to eat over the last few days. He sighed softly and sipped his stout again. Definitely a two drink limit.

John blinked and looked at Marcus again when he heard him ordering the exact same stout that John had ordered. Again Marcus seemed to feel the stare because he turned to smile and shrug at John. "You tried my drink, it seemed only fair."

"How did you-?"

"The smell," Mark explained thrusting his chin at John's glass. "People always go on and on about how wine's smell unique, beers do too."

"Huh," John murmured, looking back at his glass. He'd heard of people who could distinguish smells and flavors like that. Sometimes it was a genetic advantage, other times it was the result of hard work and study, but the idea of such easy detection made him think of Sherlock.

Sherlock...

That was the problem, wasn't it? Marcus didn't really resemble Sherlock, not at all. He was friendly, and personable, and it made sense, working in a crowd that considered themselves very posh , that he would have a thorough knowledge of wine and beer. Still John couldn't help noting the similarities, even if there weren't' many. Marcus had black hair, but it was much more orderly than Sherlock's would ever be. He'd also been able to deduce John's drink, but, as John has thought earlier, this was likely the result of hard work and study on one subject, not thousands.

"You look like you're here to forget something," Marcus remarked quietly. It wasn't a question, just an observation. John didn't want to get into the details, but he saw no point in hiding the truth.

"Something like that," He replied, sipping his stout and glancing at Marcus.

Marcus nodded softly, and tipped his glass to John before drinking from it. At length he spoke again, a wry grin spreading over his face. "Well, I do have years of experience burying scandal to the point that even my clients forget it ever happened."

John raised his eyebrows skeptically. "I thought you don't work on your nights off."

Marcus's smile slipped from wry, to smug, to sensual. "I don't," he replied, leaning forward into John's personal space to murmur, "I pick people up on my nights off."

"Like one night stands?" John asked softly, setting his beer down. Marcus was very, very close.

"Something like that," Marcus murmured back. His hand slipping forward to cover John's. "My career's too demanding for me to commit to more than one night."

John swallowed, not sure if he wanted to push Marcus away or not. Despite his many protests that Sherlock was "not my boyfriend" (John was a stickler for accurate representation) he _had_ slept with men before. As long as his partner was healthy and happy, John wasn't particularly attached to which body parts they happened to have. He wasn't in any state to consider a relationship either, for different reasons, but one night _was_ tempting... It would be nice to feel something, well, anything different from what he'd been feeling for the past several days. He licked his lips. "And you always succeed?"

Marcus's fingers were stroking over the flesh of John's hand now, and a small smirk was tugging at the edge of his lips. "Not always, I'm adamant about consent, but the chase has its own thrills."

"People don't pick me up," John admitted, licking his lips in a nervous habit.

Marcus was undeterred as his other hand slid up John's thigh and over his hip. "No?"

"No," John breathed, his eyes searching the sultry, confident expression on Marcus's face.

Marcus leaned forward until his breath ghosted over John's ear. "Spend the night with me?"

John swallowed again, feeling Marcus's lips brush his neck. The idea of being wanted, instead of endlessly pursuing something he could never have, tipped the balance. "Yes."

His reply was quiet, but Marcus must have heard it, because he pulled back with a grin and ushered John off his stool and towards the door, the remainder of their drinks forgotten. Outside Marcus lead him to a posh black Lincoln, and they slipped inside.

"Did you have a particular place in mind?" John asked, looking over as Marcus started the engine.

"The Nines," Marcus replied, pulling out of his parking space with practiced ease.

John considered for a moment as he watched London start to speed past them. "I don't think I've heard of it."

Marcus turned to grin at him for a moment. "You wouldn't have. They're upscale and very discreet. I have a standing account with them for nights like tonight."

John wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, so he remained silent. He wasn't really in the habit of one night stands, and he wasn't sure what to think about his current situation. He jumped slightly when he felt another hand take his. He glanced over and found Marcus sparing him as long a glance as traffic would allow.

"I meant what I said when I told you I'm a stickler for consent. Well, consent and safety both, actually. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

John relaxed a bit and nodded. "I know, I was just thinking."

"Well I seem to remember an Irish proverb that there are few things a stiff drink, a good laugh, and a long sleep can't help. Of course some people take the drinking thing a tad too far."

John smiled ruefully and nodded. "I'm determined not to do that."

Marcus kept their hands intertwined as he navigated traffic. "You've already had some drinks, I think I've made you laugh, or at least chuckle a time or two, now I just need to tire you out enough to sleep well."

John chuckled and squeezed Marcus's hand, grateful for his easy company. In some ways it was better to spend time with someone who didn't know him, and all his hideously painful back-story.

They pulled up to an elegant looking white building with a sign that proclaimed it to be, "Nines." Marcus came to a stop right out front and exited the car, passing his keys to a waiting valet. John joined Marcus and together they walked inside.

The lobby was a soft grey with elegant furnishings and the reception desk held two small displays of purple and white orchids. The receptionist, who's nametag declared her to be "Rebecca" glanced up at they entered and smiled. "Greetings gentleman. How can I help you today?"

"Do you have a room with a single king?" Marcus asked, pulling a card out of his wallet and presenting it to Rebecca.

Rebecca smiled, took the card, and began typing away on her computer.

"I have a single king, non-smoking, on the third floor." She replied, "Will that be acceptable?"

Marcus smiled and nodded. "Absolutely. Just charge it to my account."

"Will do." The girl typed for a minute more before presenting them with room keys. As she did so she asked, "Do you have anything you would like the front desk to hold for you?"

John frowned quizzically as Marcus began to empty his pockets. John saw his wallet and cell phone. Rebecca took them and then glanced at John.

"This hotel offers small safes or deposit boxes behind the counter that guests can use for safekeeping," Marcus explained.

Rebecca nodded. "That's right. The compartments aren't large, but if you have any items that won't fit, we can tag them and store them in our larger vault.

John's eyes widened at the last word. _Vault_. What kind of clientele was this hotel used to?

"We value our guests security very highly," Rebecca was continuing to explain.

John nodded, starting to pull out his wallet. "I understand." It was a bit surreal, but he had a large tolerance for the surreal after his experiences with Sherlock and Mycroft.

Rebecca accepted John's wallet in her free hand and wished them both a good evening before turning around and walking towards what appeared to be a back office.

John and Marcus walked together towards the elevator, and John smiled when he felt Marcus's fingers link with his own.

Once the doors of the elevator had fully shut, Marcus turned to face John. "I know the front desk holding our valuables might seem excessive, but-"

John shook his head and interrupted Marcus, "Not really. It makes sense when you think about it, especially if you do this frequently. One night means no commitment, which is what you want, but it also means you don't really get the chance to know someone, and you already said you value your safety."

John could almost feel the gun recoil in his hand as his mind flew back to that long ago night. Mycroft had been right, he _was_ very loyal very quickly, or he had been to Sherlock. It was beyond reason, but it had just felt _right_. Even now... he couldn't regret it.

"Both people's safety, actually," Marcus replied with a surprised smile. "But, yes, that's it exactly. Those facts don't always occur to most people, though. You're very observant."

"Most people haven't lived with-" John caught himself, his smile faltering, "Well..." his eyes fell to the floor, unsure how to continue. At last swallowed he settled upon, " I've spent a lot of time with detectives..."

The rest of John's thoughts remained unspoken but they clung to his mind like cold honey... One surly Detective Inspector, and one very special and unique consulting detective...

John took a breath and forced himself to focus on the moment. He had suffered a monumental loss, but he had to learn to live with it, one way or another. When he looked up he was surprised to find Marcus had embraced him in a half hug, one arm encircling John's shoulders as they stood side by side. Marcus wasn't looking at him just then, instead focusing on the elevator buttons, a fact for which John was immensely grateful.

Marcus had been very insightful and responsive in their short time together, but, John felt that fact should hardly be surprising. He'd spoken about working for a family that was heavily involved in politics. Their jobs were difficult, and so would Marcus's. He would need to be responsive to them and their needs, while also helping them navigate the dangerous territory of public opinion which was easily swayed and always in flux. It made sense that he preferred one night stands. It was likely his job didn't allow enough time for him to invest in a relationship as he'd said, but John also suspected Marcus feared what the public eye would do to any relationship he did form... Suddenly Marcus's life sounded very lonely.

They arrived on their floor and, with gentle pressure on John's shoulders, Marcus guided him to their room. Marcus instinctively held the door open for John, who proceeded him into the room. John flipped on the lights and looked around with appreciation and satisfaction. It was a much nicer room than John would usually rent for himself, without being ostentatious. The carpeting was plush, and finely detailed. There was a large king sized bed against the wall with luxurious bedding draped over it. On the opposite wall was a gas fireplace with faux logs inside.

As he continued to look around John realized this room was bigger than most hotel rooms. It wouldn't really qualify as a suite, or maybe in some hotels it would. There were two arm chairs and a low table nestled comfortably between the fireplace and the bed.

Arms came around John's middle from behind, and although John started slightly, he ultimately leaned back against Marcus's chest.

"What do you think?"

John turned his head to protest that he should pay his fair share, especially for such a nice room, but those thoughts were stalled when he felt Marcus's breath on his cheek, and realized how close they were. His eyes shifted to meet Marcus's and he felt heat blossom between them. He leaned forward and closed the distance between them with a kiss.

Marcus's lips were soft and warm, and they parted easily for him when John pressed his tongue against them, asking for entrance. Slowly, John turned around in Marcus's arms, sliding his own along Marcus's torso, and settling them at his waist. Marcus was a bit taller than John, but that was hardly a feat, and it didn't matter. John cared even less about height differences than he did about the gender of his partner. What mattered was willingness, and caring.

John pressed up into Marcus, pulling him close. Marcus responded enthusiastically, leaning into John while his hands encircled John's shoulders, tracing the muscles underneath his fingertips. Their tongues slid against and around each other, hot and wet. John hummed low in his throat and stepped forward, pushing Marcus into the wall.

Marcus made a sound of agreement, and his hands worked to slide John's jacket slowly off his shoulders. John, however was reluctant to let Marcus go now that he had him, and it wasn't until Marcus eased back with a slow smile and murmured, "I'm not going anywhere," that John relented, and allowed his jacket to slide to the floor.

Once his hands were free again, John reached for Marcus's shirt, tugging the shirtsleeves from his trousers. John's fingers stayed at Marcus's waist for a moment, pushing against the warm skin the gap revealed. Marcus sucked in a breath when John's fingers started their work on the buttons of his oxford shirt, starting from the bottom up.

When his hands had freed the last button and loosened Marcus's tie, John slid his lips over his jaw, kissing and nibbling lightly at the skin until he reached the curve of Marcus's neck; then John began to suck in earnest. Marcus tipped his head back, bearing more of his throat to John, with a gasp of, "Yes," followed by a breathy laugh when John began tugging at Marcus's shirt and suit jacket at once. "You're feisty."

Feisty. Lonely. Horny. That was about the sum of it right now.

Marcus pushed back from the wall, and John likewise eased back, giving Marcus the room he needed to shuck his jacket and shirt. His tie still hung limply around his neck, having been loosened and pushed aside in John's assault, but not actually removed.

Marcus smirked, smug as he used two hands to tug his tie free from his body. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, John," he murmured, pressing forward even as he pulled John into another kiss. They stumbled a few steps back before they came to a stop, partway between the bed and the wall. Marcus's fingers slid over the warm skin of John's neck, then shifted lower to part the buttons of his shirt.

John felt his breath coming faster as he shrugged out of his shirt, his eyes raking over the bare skin of Marcus's chest. He looked good shirtless; trim and toned. John knew he'd gone a bit soft around the edges, even with all the running around he used to do with Sherlock, still, he saw appreciation and heat glittering in Marcus's eyes as Marcus looked him over.

Marcus stepped forward, his unbuttoned slacks riding dangerously low on his hips. His hands reached out for John, grasping the fabric of his trousers and undoing the button. "We haven't talked about preferences yet," Marcus breathed, sliding John's zipper down. His mouth was so close to John's ear he felt them more than heard them. "Do you have any I should know about?"

John brought his hands back up to the warm skin of Marcus's waist, easing the fabric of his trousers over his hips. "I prefer to top," John murmured before inching forward and taking Marcus's earlobe between his teeth.

This was not strictly true. John was flexible, and generally open to new experiences, but that would require a vulnerability he was not ready to offer on a one night stand. He let Marcus's skin slide slowly between his teeth, his breath ghosting against the shell of Marcus's ear.

Marcus gasped at the sensation and whispered, "Works for me." He stepped out of his trousers, which had long since slid to the floor, and pushed John back towards the bed. As they went, Marcus's hand shot out and pressed the light switch on the wall, which turned off the main lights and started the gas fireplace. He did know his way around the hotel, but John wasn't complaining. The soft light danced over Marcus's skin, making it glow.

John's knees it the back of the bed and he sat, tugging Marcus into his lap. Marcus came willingly, rocking his growing hardness against John's. John groaned and his hands fell to Marcus's bum, urging him closer. The taunt skin, however, was still clothed in pants. John tugged at the fabric and growled, "Off."

 **Censored Content Removed**

* * *

John came to awareness slowly, shifting when he felt the gentle brush of fingers along his bare back. He blinked, breathed deeply, then yawned.

"Morning." It was spoken softly, and with a small amount of affection.

John blinked and half turned, until he was lying on his side as opposed to his stomach.

"Hey," he breathed, smiling up at Marcus. The other man was already immaculately dressed and groomed, his hair slightly damp. He had showered and was ready to face the day. He was sitting on the bed just beside John.

"How are you feeling?"

John's smile grew, growing almost smug. "Good. Sore, but I'll live."

Marcus's eyes flitted to John's old bullet wound, then back to his face. "I'm sure you will." Then, almost as though it was an afterthought, "You had some nightmares last night."

John frowned. "Did I hit you?" It was common for him to flail in his sleep, and strike with force.

Marcus shook his head. "No, I would have backed off if I thought you would. Tr-" Marcus faltered and looked away for a moment. "I've slept with people who have had nightmares before." Marcus's tone was light, but his eyes seemed to hold a terrible weight.

John reached out a hand and laid it over Marcus's which had fallen to the sheets between them. "At least you had some common sense. I-I had a flatmate that would barrel in, risk of personal injury be damned."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "He worries about you that much?"

John shook his head, his expression growing serious. "No, he was just excited to tell me whatever he was up to. He liked being the center of attention."

They shared a meaningful look, and John wondered if Marcus's heart wasn't as spoken for as his own was.

Marcus squeezed his hand. "I have an early morning meeting to facilitate, but check out isn't until 11:00am. You have plenty of time to enjoy the sinfully large tub in the bathroom. I'm jealous."

"I can p-" John started, and found Marcus's fingers pressed to his lips.

"You don't need to pay. This is my habit, and I support it."

John sighed, but nodded. He disagreed, but they weren't likely to ever see each other again, and he didn't want to argue.

Marcus's hand slipped from John's mouth to his good shoulder. "Thank you for a brilliant evening. You have yourself a wonderful day." Marcus leaned down, and John met him halfway in a kiss.

When they separated John smiled and murmured, "Thank you, I will. You too."

They shared a smile, then Marcus rose to leave. John lay back and watched him go. His eyes drifted to the ceiling when the door clicked shut. He fully intended to make use of the bath, and then…then he would need to get serious about pulling his life together.

No one would do it for him.


	5. The Heart of a Consulting Detective

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to sweetmarly for their thoughtful and encouraging review! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

* * *

Chapter Four: The Heart of a Consulting Detective

Sherlock's gloved fingers scoured the body before him and his mind began cataloguing details. Subject: Mr. Wallingford, Caucasian male, mid-sixties. He had a slight paunch around the middle, but was generally fit. He likely exercised with his eldest son. The body held no remarkable scars, birthmarks, or tattoos. The eyes were clear and in good condition for a man Mr. Wallingford's age. His mouth was riddled with fillings, bridges, and even two implants. There was unhealed bruising around the veins in each arm and hand, due to his many intravenous medications in the last weeks of his life. These corresponded to the bed sores on Mr. Wallingford's back and hips.

Sherlock peeled back the flaps of skin covering the chest cavity, stifling an irritated sigh as he did so. The initial cuts were already made from the 'official' autopsy the day before. The consistency and coloring of the post mortem blood in response to being cut _could_ have held some vital clues, but there was nothing for it now.

The lungs were in terrible shape. Years of smoking, on top of asthma…no, it had developed into COPD before he died. Sherlock sliced a sliver of lung tissue with a precision scalpel and placed it on a slide, before transporting said slide to the nearby microscope. Sherlock made some notes, adjusted the slide, and looked again. The tissue showed some signs of improving prior to mortem; it was likely the hospital staff had enforced the no-smoking policy despite what Mr. Wallingford would have wished.

Sherlock examined the heart next. It was enlarged, and the bypass was clearly visible. The surgeon had done a thorough job. Of course by the nature of what they were, hospitals were a cesspool of, and a breeding ground for, infections, especially those resistant to treatment. Under the right conditions it would have only taken a pin prick at the right moment of vulnerability for Mr. Wallingford to become infected, especially if the tools for the bypass surgery were somehow tainted and the infection began in his heart…

One by one Sherlock thoroughly examined the liver, the stomach, the lymph nodes, and the intestines. The signs of the infection that had ravaged Mr. Wallingford in his last days were everywhere, but nothing gave any indication of the source. There was no definitive clue suggesting foul play. There were needle marks, but nothing so far out of place that it couldn't have been from an intravenous line or medication administered through injection. The lack of proof did not rule out foul play either; if it had been easy to spot, Lestrade would have done so.

Sherlock sat beside the body, leaving the chest cavity exposed, his hands pressed together just in front of his chin and he began meticulously reviewing the data he had gathered thus far. It would be foolish to miss anything, and he had a feeling there was _something_ to this case. The family was benign and relatively unambitious, at least as far as motive for murder went. The body was ill, but not in way that obviously indicated foul play. Mr. Wallingford's murderer, if there was one, was skilled, or at the very least not as hideously insipid as most of the rest of the word...

A sharp pain in his left hand forced Sherlock suddenly out of his mind palace. He looked up, blinking at one Molly Hopper.

"There's someone here to see you," she said, deftly capping and disposing of a bloody scalpel in the lab's sharps container.

Sherlock blinked and shifted his gaze to his left hand.

"You stabbed me," he observed dryly.

"Don't be a baby, I only scratched you," Molly scoffed tossing a plaster at him. "I'm not John, I can't pull you out of your bloody mind palace on a whim. I tried shaking you, but you wouldn't come round. I would have let you stew there all day, but your visitor is very insistent."

Molly no longer had romantic feelings for him, Sherlock had known that for a year. She didn't hate him either, but there was a low level resentment that left her terse and direct. Sherlock had been grateful for that, it simplified things. ...She had never stabbed him before though...she was angry...

Sherlock glanced up and observed Molly meticulously and furiously laying out Petri dishes. Their eyes met for a moment and her face contorted in disgust. She remained silent.

 _I'm not John._

When he'd come in this morning she'd asked where John was, and Sherlock had stated the truth. "John Watson isn't part of my work anymore." He hadn't wanted to waste the breath on it yesterday, but the questions would keep coming if he didn't address them... People and their ludicrous sentiments...

Molly was absurdly romantic. She was probably furious that he'd 'wasted his chance,' or whatever such nonsense ran through her head. He bit back a sigh. There would be a lecture in his future, whether he wanted one or not, and he'd have to at least pretend to pay attention or she would attack him again. She was that vexed.

Sherlock glanced at his hand, licking it to clear the blood and slow the bleeding before slapping the plaster over it. He'd spent his time between the crime scene and the body trying to arrange a meeting with Mr. Wallingford's business associates. The lateness of the hour hadn't mattered; business was conducted at all hours around the world. He had managed to force his way onto the schedule of Mr. Wallingford's Vice President, Richard Murphy. Standing, Sherlock adjusted his suit and strode out of the lab.

A tall man with trimmed black hair, light brown eyes, and rectangular spectacles waited for him, eyes trained on the phone in his hand. He was furiously texting as he looked up and smiled in greeting. Shifting the phone to one hand as he finished the text, the man extended his hand towards Sherlock in greeting.

Sherlock stopped in front of the other man without shaking his hand. "You are not Mr. Murphy."

The man seemed undeterred as his extended hand returned to his side, and his other slipped the phone into his suit jacket pocket. "No, I am Marcus Oylear, his assistant. Unfortunately Mr. Murphy was unavoidably delayed. Much must be handled since the untimely demise of Mr. Wallingford. He sent me to collect you, however. He has a twenty minute window before his lunch meeting."

"Let's be quick then," Sherlock agreed, striding forward before Marcus had fully turned around. Marcus was quick on his feet however. He followed Sherlock and overtook him before they'd left the building.

"The car is just this way," Marcus explained, gesturing to the parking garage as they went. Marcus barely had time to unlock the doors before Sherlock slipped into the front seat. Assistants and drivers where used to their clients begin in the back. Someone in the front usually unnerved them. Marcus, however, was perturbingly unphased. He slid in beside Sherlock with another friendly grin and made quick work of putting the car in motion. He didn't ask questions, or offer conversation as though he could already tell it would be a waste of time.

Sherlock turned his head and opened his mouth to begin an interrogation-assistants, drivers, and secretaries were almost as good at gathering information as little old ladies and their twitching curtains- when a faint edge of purple caught his attention. There was the barest hint of a love bite peeking out over the edges of Marcus's collar. It was dark, but healing. Two days old... Sherlock narrowed his gaze and leaned forwards. He was both staring and invading Marcus's personal space, but something about the mark had caught his attention, and he had to know why.

Marcus didn't react to Sherlock's invasion of his personal space until Sherlock dared to reach out and tug his collar down. Then two things happened very quickly:

1.) Marcus violently shoved Sherlock back into the passenger's seat with a calm but threatening, "Please put on your seatbelt, sir."

2.) Sherlock recognized the impression etched into the column of Marcus's throat.

 _John_.

John had left that mark behind. He'd lived with John too long, interrupted too many dates, seen him bite into too much food not to recognize that mark instantly.

Sherlock wasn't often stunned, but this wouldn't be the first time John's actions had blindsided him... He'd never suspected John would hunt him down and shoot the cabbie for him, but he had...

Sherlock never did put on his seatbelt, but he remained silent in his seat, gaze fixed on the man beside him, furiously deducing everything he could. Marcus had worked in business and politics his entire adult life, and that was where he intended to stay. Not in the lime light, but behind the scenes, almost the power behind the throne, or CEO, or elected official, as it were. His current position gave him all of this without any real personal risk... but he didn't have a committed relationship. There was too much travel and business at all hours to support it, not to mention the slight but persistent risk that in a big enough scandal Marcus, and anyone he loved, could also be dragged into the spotlight.

He was in love, but not with John. He'd been in love for years. He had the same quiet, resigned demeanor John had these last few years. He was in love but didn't believe he could have the person he did love. Instead he made a habit of one night stands.

Most people underestimated Marcus because he was charming and _only_ an assistant, but Sherlock wasn't that stupid. He dealt with all manner of people, so naturally he would be unflappable, but he wasn't about to be walked over, hence his quick and subtly threatening actions when Sherlock had actually touched him. He could be a useful resource of information, but Marcus was not likely to respond to Sherlock's typical methods of intimidation and manipulation.

Marcus parked the car in silence, and they shared a long, tense elevator ride to executive suites of Mr. Wallingford's investment firm. Everything was spotless glass, polished marble, and stainless steel. The halls were filled with immaculately tailored suits, dour looks, and the results of too much plastic surgery.

Mr. Murphy's office was behind two solid, glossy wooden doors with gold inlay. The secretary, busily typing away behind her desk just outside, glanced once at Marcus and said nothing to impede their progress.

Marcus reached forward and opened one of the ornate wooden doors, gesturing for Sherlock to step inside. Sherlock began to move into the room, turning towards Marcus to murmur, "Send my regards to Mycroft," as he did so. Marcus winked and nodded in such an easy fashion that Sherlock couldn't tell if he actually knew Mycroft, which was possible, or just Mycroft's team. He knew someone connected to Mycroft, even if he didn't have the privilege of knowing that he knew them. Everyone with a position of actual power did.

The door was closing behind him, so Sherlock turned to face Mr. Murphy. There was a definite resemblance to the body he had recently examined. Mr. Murphy was a well defined middle age man with a well concealed thinning hairline. He sat behind his desk, and did not rise when Sherlock entered the room. Instead he glanced up from his computer and waved Sherlock over to the chair in front of his desk. This was both because of his busy schedule, and to establish dominance.

Sherlock was neither surprised or impressed as he took his seat. He didn't have Mr. Murphy's full attention now, but he would.

"Thank you for your flexibility in meeting me, Mr. Holmes," Mr. Murphy said, still distractedly looking at his computer. "I apologize for the change in venue, there have been many unexpected projects for the firm recently." This was both an illusion to Mr. Wallingford's demise and another power play.

"I hope I didn't disturb you when I called your secretary last night," Sherlock replied, leaning back in his chair.

Mr. Murphy's fingers faltered over the keyboard, but just for a moment. He did go through the trouble of frowning and looking at Sherlock. "No, why would you have?"

"Anything that disturbs one bed partner is bound to disturb the other. Surely you've seen the research?"

Mr. Murphy stood abruptly, toppling the chair he had been sitting in. "How dare you?!" His voice was indignant, but not raised so sharply that they were likely to be overheard outside the office. "I love my wife!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and remained sitting. He did, however, press his hands together just below his chin and lean forward. "Mr. Murphy, I am here to investigate anything unusual that may have been associated with Mr. Wallingford's death. I know Mrs. Wallingford gave me clearance to do so."

Mr. Murphy took a step back. "She's not an official employee!" He insisted.

Sherlock leaned forward, pinning Mr. Murphy with his gaze. "No, but I am, as you have seen, extraordinarily observant. All I'm interested in investigating is the death of Mr. Wallingford, but I will investigate and...expose other matters if that's what it takes to get the cooperation I need." He allowed a slow, cruel smile to creep over his features as he watch Murphy begin to sweat.

"Fine, fine. What do you want, Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Murphy was still standing, and half turned as if he wanted to run, but he knew better.

Sherlock leaned back lazily in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. "Tell me about Mr. Wallingford. About his illness, and what happened after." he heard the creak of Mr. Murphy's chair as he forced himself to sit down.

"Mr. Wallingford has always been very dedicated to the company. His father ran it before him, and his father before that."

Sherlock bit back the urge to scoff, for the plethora of useless details he received, one could never predict when someone would let slip something that was trivial to them but vital to the case. This was why he let people ramble.

"This last quarter has been...difficult." Mr. Murphy paused to clear his throat. "The company has weathered many storms before, naturally, but I think the strain was getting to Mr. Wallingford."

"What were the difficulties, specifically?" Sherlock asked after a lengthy pause from Mr. Murphy.

Sherlock could hear the fabric of Mr. Murphy's suit ruffle in a shrug. "The usual things. We had one of our top brokers take a three month medical leave. Two others gave notice, about a month apart. Mr. Wallingford suspected they were going to strike out on their own, try to form a rival company."

Murphy chuckled as though the idea were ludicrous. It was not, such maneuvers had a good chance of being successful and undermining the parent company if they were handled right. If the people who left were as high up as Murphy said they were, they stood a decent chance. Murphy had to know that, surly Mr. Wallingford had too. Their pride and business bravado would never allow them to say it out loud, even to each other when they were both alive, but they knew.

"Is this why Mr. Wallingford was working so many late nights?" Sherlock pressed, not wanting to lose momentum.

"Yes," Mr. Murphy sighed. "The market's not what it used to be, neither is the job market. Too many people are interested in slingshoting themselves up the ranks by hopping from company to company. They stay just long enough to do some good work, maybe get promoted, then they jump to a higher position in another company, taking everything they learned with them." He could hear Mr. Murphy shaking his head. "People aren't loyal like they used to be."

Sherlock rolled his eyes since he was still staring at the ceiling and Mr. Murphy wouldn't see. People weren't loyal as a rule. He'd seen friendships and marriages decades long, crumple to pieces at the first significant opportunity. And those were the relationships people claimed "really mattered." Why would business, which most people described as "war", be any different? The only real shift was how much people showed their hand. In this day and age it brought one power to show how tenuous one's loyalty was, it made the other party more likely to bribe and be compliant in the hopes of avoiding the inevitable. There was a time when it made more sense to appear loyal, to gain trust that could be exploited at the right moment. It was all the same game, just different strategies.

"Anyway," Mr. Murphy continued, "We filled in the gaps with _some_ worthy promotions, but then we needed to bring in temps to fill in the gaps those transitions left, and we still haven't quiet stabilized. It will happen, it just takes time." Mr. Murphy sounded unsure, even to himself. If things had already been difficult, the untimely death of the head of the company must have hurt their image. As if his weak heart portrayed some inner failing in the company... God, people were so stupid...

It was possible this was all there was too it, a company in trouble, and an ill, elderly man pushing himself too far... but it wouldn't hurt to be thorough.

"I will need a laptop with access to the companies' electronic files and a secure room," Sherlock announced, springing to his feet. "I presume you can provide one?"

Mr. Murphy stared at Sherlock for a long, hard moment before replying in a low voice, "Yes, I have just the thing." He stood, walked around his desk, and left the room.

Sherlock followed him down a short series of halls and into what appeared to be a small filing room. It looked like a filing office at least, but it was badly disguised. It _had_ filing cabinets, which Sherlock was certain held real client records, but it was doubtful there was any rhyme or reason to the filers stored here. They were just for show. That much was obvious as soon as Sherlock observed the intricate wooden paneling, the lack of windows, and unusually thick carpeting: the room was soundproofed.

Mr. Murphy only confirmed Sherlock's suspicions when he shrugged and said. "It used to be a break room, but Mr. Wallingford had it renovated this year. I'm not sure what subset of clients he was working on, or why. Most of our records are held in two secured basement floors."

They walked together to the very back of the room, to a corner well hidden from the door. There was a simple folding table and chair, and on the center of the table, facing the wall, was a single black laptop.

"Mr. Wallingford spent his last working days locked away in this room," Mr. Murphy said softly. "Most people didn't know he was still here. He worked right up until the night before his surgery, then for the two weeks after he had recovered, before…well…"

Sherlock strode around the table, took a seat, and opened the laptop.

"You'll never get into that one," Mr. Murphy started, taking a step forward. "Our best IT staff haven't been able to crack the password. Give that over I'll get you a fresh laptop."

"That will be all, Mr. Murphy," Sherlock dismissed him, fingers moving furiously over the keys.

"Come on, give it here, you'll never crack the password. You're just wasting your time." Mr. Murphy insisted.

Sherlock ignored him.

Mr. Murphy stood for a moment watching Sherlock, the silence stretching thin. Finally he moved around to peer over Sherlock's shoulder, and he gaped. "How-?!"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, his fingers never stilling. "Mr. Murphy I was in before I'd properly sat down. You can leave now." Sherlock waved his hand in a shooing gesture.

Mr. Murphy stared down at him, incredulous. "That is company property, Mr. Holmes! It needs to be examined." He reached out to grasp the edge of the machine and let out a sharp cry when Sherlock snatched his hand and bent it unnaturally at the wrist, two pounds of force shy of actually breaking it.

Sherlock's eyes never left the computer, and his other hand was still busy typing, but his grip never wavered, despite Mr. Murphy's struggles. When he spoke, Sherlock's voice was low and threatening. "This is _my_ case, and this is vital evidence. If you insist, of course I will be happy to phone Detective Inspector Lestrade and bring a full investigation team. After, of course I calculate half of your net worth and alimony for your wife."

Mr. Murphy blanched and took a step back. As he did so, Sherlock released him, and returned both hands to the computer. Mr. Murphy lingered for a few moments before slinking back out of the room. When the door had shut behind Mr. Murphy, Sherlock focused the entirety of his mind on the laptop in front of him. No one else really knew he was here, and Mr. Murphy wouldn't have the courage to return.

His first course of action as to hack the company security system. The discrete camera that had formerly overseen employee downtime had been thoroughly disabled already, likely by Mr. Wallingford during the initial renovations. Sherlock started his review of past tapes with those capturing the comings and goings of Mr. Wallingford in the last months of his life.

There was a tension in his shoulders and a notable twitch under his left eye in the days preceding his surgery, and just after his recovery. Mr. Wallingford had something weighing heavy on his mind in his last days, and whatever it was, it was big. This was evident for two prominent reasons. First there was the palpable deterioration of his mental status; a man who ran a multi-billion pound business, who came from a family of dedicated businessmen, did not panic lightly. Next was the duration of his symptoms. The anxiety that had later turned to panic first began to etch itself in Mr. Wallingford's features a year prior to his death. The symptoms of his growing heart condition, which had been building for well over a decade based on progression, were there alongside the growing anxiety, but Sherlock was easily able to distinguish one from the other.

Every symptom Sherlock detected indicated something cataclysmic was brewing, at least in the eyes of Mr. Wallingford. Setting the video archives aside, Sherlock shifted his focus to business files. This laptop had not been Mr. Wallingford's work computer, but much of his work could be found here regardless. Just like the 'filing room' the computer held a thin veneer of normality, that Sherlock was itching to shatter.

Unfortunately, technology did not respond to treats or carefully worded barbs. It could not be emotionally manipulated to reveal the details of what could be easily deduced. Technology responded only to its programming, and Mr. Wallingford, motivated by just such emotional liabilities, had been thorough. Sherlock had barely brushed the computer's codes when their complexity became readily apparent. Mr. Wallingford was well trained and had many technologically savvy people in his employ. Sherlock could not be certain if Mr. Wallingford had coded the computer directly, or asked one of said employees to set up the securities and backdoors before he had begun working on it. Either way, it was better to exercise caution. This was the best lead he'd seen all day, and Sherlock was not about to bollix it up by inadvertently tripping any self-destruct programming that might have been added to the machine.

Sherlock settled himself in for the long haul. His fingers danced along the keyboard, typing, scrolling, and coaxing his way deeper inside the machine. Each layer brought more promise, more pieces of the whole. Mr. Wallingford's firm was in trouble, had been in trouble for a long time... Measures had been taken, attempts had been made to shore up in a harsh market... but there had been outside pressure to expand beyond what their means had been at that time. Risks had been taken at a critical moment when the company was already over extended. Loans were secured, favors were called in, and the looming destruction of the company continued to gain momentum. Mr. Wallingford had created this windowless, sequestered space for his last efforts to forestall disaster. If he'd had more time and some _very_ lucky breaks there was a 19% chance he might have started to turn the tide, but even then, it would have taken _years_ of patient and wealthy clients...

 _This_ was a reason for murder...

Unfortunately, it was also a reason to call his brother...

A company this large and prestigious, with such a long history... well, if it wasn't managed right it could precipitate a serious financial crash. Mr. Wallingford's firm was not the only firm, but all the largest and most influential firms were connected, and the ripple effect would be disastrous...

Sherlock pushed back from the desk with an angry shove. He didn't like losing ground like this, especially not to _Mycroft_. But where did that leave him? There was a possibility that Mr. Wallingford had been murdered, but the probability was shrinking fast. He _had_ a heart condition and enough business sense to perfectly understand his position. The strain would have been too much for younger men...

Sherlock cursed softly and pulled out his phone. It rang in his ear four times before a bleary sounding Lestrade picked up. "ello?"

"Roll over and put my brother on the phone," Sherlock ordered. His voice wasn't raised but it was direct and clipped. Mycroft and Lestrade had been together as a couple for several years now. It officially happened shortly before Sherlock's fall, but they'd been dancing around each other for years. Sherlock wasn't sure whether he should be surprised that it took so long, or that it happened at all.

Lestrade groaned, cursed loudly, and rolled over.

* * *

Sherlock squinted irritably in the light of the flashing cameras. He shifted his weight and Lestrade's grip tightened on his elbow like a vice.

"Don't even think about it. You _are_ staying for the press conference." Lestrade's face never wavered from his serious yet hopeful expression, one crafted just for the sea of press spread out before them. It was obvious, to Sherlock anyway, that Lestrade had been coached.

Sherlock tilted his head to place his mouth closer to Lestrade's ear, but still kept his face in full view of the cameras as he hissed, "It's bad enough your letting my brother fuck you up the arse, don't let him into your head as well."

Sherlock had not been loud enough to be overheard by anyone but Lestrade, still the Detective Inspector recoiled, scowling. Unfortunately, he did not recoil far enough to release his grip on Sherlock's elbow. Mycroft and Lestrade had been adamant that Sherlock attend the press conference since he had been the one to uncover the financial threat, and it looked like he was stuck for it.

Mycroft, or rather Mycroft's team had come barreling into the small office where Sherlock had made his discovery, taking over the site. Sherlock had been put out that it had come to that, but not as much as he would have been if he thought there was still a solid lead to follow.

A week later Sherlock had been summoned to the ungodly press conference. Apparently Mycroft's team had partnered with Mr. Wallingford's family, and they were now investing the vast majority of their family wealth, the one thing Mr. Wallingford had refused to touch, in the company to shore it up. It would require them to sell their townhouse and transition to working class lifestyle for many years. That's why the press conference. To announce the companies failings, and the family's attempt to take personal responsibility for Mr. Wallingford's actions which resulted in said failings. Mycroft was trying to sell this company to the middle class as some sort of prodigal son, and help recruit more business. The company would undoubtedly lose some of its wealthier clients, but Mycroft probably hoped to delay that, or reduce the amount of clients lost with this press conference.

Sherlock had as much of an understanding of the political workings at play as he cared to. What he didn't understand was why Mycroft wanted _him_ here. There was nothing Sherlock was likely to add, and Bryan's stoic, fresh faced leadership alongside Nathan's youthful enthusiasm would do a much better job of creating the image that Mycroft was hoping to sell.

"You're lucky to have caught this in time," Lestrade was murmuring, trying to engage Sherlock in conversation as though that would decrease the odds of him slipping away at the first available opportunity.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow disdainfully at Lestrade. "There will still be a financial decline, you realize."

Lestrade shrugged, "Yeah, but not as bad as it would've been. The company might have tried to press on for years and really taken England down with it."

Sherlock scoffed, but Lestrade pressed on, "I mean it, Sherlock. Mr. Murphy could have forced you out of that room. I'm surprised he didn't try. You know it was two in the morning when you called right?"

"He did try to force me away from the laptop," Sherlock clarified, "and he returned after the fact, when the building was about to close."

"How did you get the time you needed?" Lestrade asked, always curious about Sherlock's inner workings. Not as curious as John had been, but still...

"Originally I threatened to expose his affair with his secretary," Sherlock explained.

Lestrade sighed and whispered, "Of course you did..." but the smile that followed belied any intent he'd had to scold Sherlock.

"When he returned the second time, I simply did not know he was there; I was too deep in my mind palace."

Lestrade nodded slowly. "John was the only one who could ever get you out of you mind palace at will." There was a short, strained silence before he asked, "What happened?"

Sherlock jerked in Lestrade's grip, but it was unrelenting.

"Don't struggle too much," Lestrade admonished, turning his face to gaze out over the crowd again. "It doesn't look good for the camera's. Also Bryan's coming to the end of his speech and you'll only draw more questions to yourself if you struggle."

Sherlock didn't give a damn about the cameras, but he really did want to leave, not lengthen his stay, so he stopped struggling. His cooperation, however, did not deter Lestrade from his line of questioning.

"Where is John, Sherlock? Do you even know?"

He didn't, but that was hardly relevant. "He was distracting me from my work, I already went over this with Molly almost a week ago, didn't she tell you?"

Lestrade fixed him with a sharp glare. "She did, and Mycroft before her, but that's not the point, Sherlock. _Why_ did you do it? I thought John was a part of your work."

"He was a helpful associate at one time," Sherlock acknowledged, his voice distant.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" Lestrade started, but Sherlock shushed him.

"Let's not argue, Lestrade. It looks bad for the cameras..."

Lestrade's grip on his arm was cutting off his circulation now, and his face hardened in a way it usually didn't unless he was facing down a particularly heartless criminal, but he was blessedly silent.

Sherlock looked casually over at Bryan standing up at the podium, with Nathan just behind him, and his mother and sister standing a little ways behind them both. It wouldn't be long now...

"My father made mistakes, and they cost people dearly," Bryan was saying, summarizing his points. "But I am determined that no one will pay any further price for the mistakes of my father. Together we can build a brighter stronger future for this company, and be transparent about our successes and our stumbles. We will set a new tone for how business is run in the financial sector!"

There was a some applause, not thunderous, but not pitiful either. Bryan had an audience, and he was determined to lead them. Sherlock still and to endure twenty minutes of speeches before Lestrade _finally_ let him go.

As soon as Sherlock felt the grip loosening Sherlock leapt for freedom, tearing off through the crowd. Lestrade's sharp cry and questions followed him, but he didn't care. He'd never signed up to tolerate tedium, and press conferences where nothing but. Especially the relentless questions about John. He was gone, was that so hard to accept?!

When he reached the street Sherlock summoned a cab in his typical fashion, and slipped inside. He spent the short ride to 221 considering his next options. He had some experiments he could run, but he was more interested in a case, a real case this time. Hopefully a client was waiting for him.

Possessed with the thought of a waiting case Sherlock leapt from the cab before it had properly stopped. The cabbie shouted after him, but Sherlock didn't heed him until, being lighter on his feet than most, said cabbie leapt from the cab and pinned Sherlock to his own front door. He was shouting threats about the police and other such nonsense. Sherlock didn't have time for it. He rolled his eyes, fished out his wallet, and threw money at him. The yelling stopped and Sherlock was at last able to make his way inside.

His first glance at the stairs told him there hadn't been any visitors. No new scuff marks, no minute deposits of sediment, no disturbance of the dust in the corners. Just as well, he could have his pick from the website this way.

Resolved, Sherlock tore up the stairs, and burst through the door to 221 B. The floor was more of a wreck than usual, and the concentration required to close the distance between the door and his laptop was irritating. He might have to put some effort into tidying soon...ugh.

Seconds later the mess on the floor was forgotten as Sherlock scrolled through is blog website looking for cases...

 _Mr. Holmes, I know you don't usually take animal cases, but I need to find Roxy, she's a member of the family._

Pedestrian. It would have been better for them to contact local shelters.

 _I know that someone has blacklisted me, I can't find work anywhere. I need your help to find out who is responsible._

Sherlock scoffed quietly. He was a consulting detective, not a life coach.

 _Are the rumors true? Is Mr. Watson really out of the picture?_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. As per usual, everyone was focused on details of the least importance and relevance.

 _Why?! Are you and Dr. Watson fighting? I thought you both might be on a long case...it has been a while since he's updated his blog..._

This wasn't so unusual, there was always a certain amount of nonsense to slog through on his website. This nonsense was just centered unnecessarily around recent events.

 _My Aunt Mariah is out to murder me and no one believes me._

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted. Finally, something with some promise. He read on.

 _There's been all these strange happenings around the house. Items missing, or broken. The landlord is bringing in repairmen for the furnace, but I_ _ **know**_ _that was Aunt Mariah too._

A stalking case? Family feud? If this Mariah was deliberately attacking this potential client's home environment in a campaign of fear, as opposed to outright attacking them, this case might hold some promise... Any forensic evidence a family member left behind might be easily discarded by the Yard in a family home, especially if other family members corroborated the alibi of the perpetrator.

 _I_ _ **know**_ _she's in my house, Mr. Holmes, I can feel her. She's never forgiven me for marrying Richard, and now she's trying to exact her revenge from beyond the grave!_

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and sighed loudly. A ghost story. True he'd seen many supposed ghost stories turn into memorable cases, but most of the time they were the ravings of lonely and paranoid people... He _could_ mark this for later review he supposed...but he really wanted something different. An eight at least. He kept scrolling.

There were manic ramblings from a paranoid schizophrenic, a women asking him to find her a date (tedious and pointless), a mother asking him to reconcile her husband and son (he wasn't a family counselor either), and a man who had been the victim of a pedestrian robbery.

Sherlock's tension and irritation were mounting. He'd never been good at controlling either, and he wanted a case! An actual case, and a good one! Sherlock slammed the laptop shut with a soft growl.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock perked up immediately. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" There was no one with her, no client _here_ but perhaps she'd received a tip or a call. He wanted a case that was an eight, but at the moment he'd even leave the house for a six.

His elderly landlady poked her head into the flat with her usual friendly smile, which wavered slightly when she noticed the increased disorder of the flat. "I just wanted to remind you the rent is due, dear."

Sherlock glowered, but she was undeterred. "I expect the check tomorrow, Sherlock. John used to take care of it for you, but he's not around anymore, is he?"

Not _her_ too! "Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock snapped, rising to close the door firmly in her face. He didn't suspect it would intimidate her, not when she'd been his landlady for this long, but he hoped it would make her leave.

Sherlock stalked to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, and review his list of potential experiments,...but there wasn't any tea left...or milk.

The intensity of his own scowl was starting to give him a headache, and he flopped dramatically into his chair, head lolling. He had just started to review his mind palace, wondering if he had a firearm of his own (John had taken his with him) when something glinting by the fireplace caught his attention. Making the monumental effort to turn his head, Sherlock's eyes locked on John's old cane. It had gathered dust and a few cobwebs over the years, but neither of them had ever thrown it out.

Sherlock leaned forward and plucked it from its station amongst the fire pokers. He turned it over in his hands. That was a good case, all of it. Securing John as a flatmate when he was needed, the rash of suicides, the cabbie, the chase through London, the bullet he never expected. His long fingers clenched around the hard metal of the cane as he remembered John's expression when he turned back from Angelo to stare at him, amazed. John had always been amazed, enamored, and loyal in a way Sherlock never expected. Perhaps that was why they'd gone on so long together...

He never should have welcomed John back after the fall, he should have made it a clean break, but he hadn't. He'd meant to, but John had been so _happy_ to see him, Sherlock hadn't expected that either. He'd expected anger, betrayal, and perhaps an enemy. There _had_ been anger, but it had been fleeting. In the end John had shaken his head and said, " _I know who my flatmate is. It would hardly be sensible to expect him to be anyone else_."

But John was gone now. It was better this way. Sherlock had gotten to used to his presence if the rent, the tea, and the state of the floor were anything to go by. He didn't need John's reminders to be polite, or his tea, his gun, his help, none of it. It was better this way...

John was gone..

Sherlock blinked, his vision violently blurring, tears falling onto the hand that still held John's old cane, the only part of him he'd left behind.

 _I won't come back..._

John was gone.

John was gone forever, and Sherlock had no one to blame but himself...

...

...

What had he done?...


	6. Fragile Resolve

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **I know this post is a bit early, but I'm about to run off to comicon, so I'm hoping you won't mind.**

 **Thank you to Brown Eyed Girl-62, sweetmarly, and ToxicKiba for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

* * *

Chapter Five: Fragile Resolve

John yawned behind one hand while the other worked the lock to the clinic. It had been so long since he'd been able to attend work without the risk of Sherlock throwing everything off kilter, that he'd almost forgotten which key it was on his key ring. Feeling the lock click, John pushed his body against the door to open it. The door was set to lock automatically behind anyone who entered until one of the receptionists opened for the day.

John smiled and nodded at Mary, one of the clinic nurses, as he entered. Mary smiled and waved back. It was nice getting into the office early for once. It had been harder to get up this morning than he thought it would be. It would get easier with time though. John had gotten too used to Sherlock's jumbled hours... He bit back a sigh and his chest ached. Every time he told himself that he had to move forward, he felt a tugging sensation in his heart.

He loved Sherlock, _really_ loved him. Even without voicing his feelings officially or changing their relationship, John knew he had committed himself. Through his actions he'd made silent promises to Sherlock to be there, to help him, and share in his life. For all John's high handed notions of honoring their friendship and Sherlock's wishes, he had allowed Sherlock deeper into his heart than was wise, by any standards, and he would be paying the price for it for some time to come.

He just had to think of this like a chronic illness. It wasn't likely to resolve completely, if he was really honest with himself. The goal then should be symptom management. This initial period would be painful because he was hurt, and because he was angry. That anger was what fueled his resolve. Love, relationships, both involved risks. John accepted that, and he accepted that the risks he had taken with his heart had backfired. What he could not accept was taking that sort of risk again, not with Sherlock. He would never survive it.

John slipped into the 'provider of the day' office, turned on the lights, set his things away, and turned on his computer to review his appointments. He was feeling very productive and was just considering stepping out to the break room to get a cup of tea, when Mary slipped into his office with one in hand. John smiled and reached out for the steaming mug as she offered it to him.

"Thank you, Marry. You didn't have to do that," John said, sipping the tea.

Mary raised a delicate blond eyebrow at him. The expression reminded him just enough of Sherlock that John had to look away for a moment.

"I think I did," Mary replied, stealing one of his office chairs and scooting close to him. "Not that people would really question a nurse stepping in to speak with a doctor, but people _do_ talk, and this way they'll talk about the tea and not assume anything else."

John carefully set his tea down on his desk. "What did you want to talk about, then?"

Mary had her purse in her lap and was fishing around inside it. "I didn't come to talk, I came to apply makeup to you."

John sputtered, very grateful he'd just set his tea down. "Excuse me?!"

Mary, unflustered, lifted concealer from her purse with a triumphant smile. "That is, unless you want your patient's noticing that love bite."

John flushed, and his hand went to his neck. He'd known it was there, he'd seen it yesterday morning when he was dressing. It was only a day and a half old; John knew he couldn't expect it to fade properly for another few days, especially when it was so dark… Not that he had any regrets. Marcus had been…energetic, but a very welcome distraction. He had meant to cover it up… but he'd forgotten.

"I-I can cover it myself, thank you," John started, reached out for the makeup in Mary's hand.

She drew her hand back and peered at him dubiously. "Do you have much practical experience applying makeup, Dr. Watson?"

"Well, no, but it can't be that hard," John murmured, rubbing his neck in slight embarrassment.

Mary smiled and shook her head. "Not to cover it, but to make it look natural requires some talent. Having something obviously covered would only raise more questions. It will really only take me a minute; I don't mind."

John was dubious, but the last thing he needed was more trouble right now, so at length he nodded.

"Brilliant," Mary replied, and leaned forward in her seat to remove his tie and undo the first few buttons of his collar.

"Thank you, Mary," John murmured as she slipped off his tie.

She looked up at him with an understanding smile. "You're welcome." Once she had loosened his collar, Mary tilted John's head to the side and went to work. John felt the first wet dab of her makeup sponge before she asked. "Have fun?"

John blushed. He thought he was too old for blushing but he'd never exactly pictured this scenario before, either. "Yes," he said, looking pointedly at the ceiling.

Mary chuckled. "There's no need to be so shy, Dr. Watson. As long as it was consenting adults there's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I don't normally do this," John muttered.

"Well, that much is obvious. If you were any more red I'd need to use blush instead of concealer," Mary retorted, leaning back for a moment to smirk at him.

John laughed, despite his best efforts not to. It was just so absurd the turn his life had taken in such a short period of time. The last time his world had turned so completely on its head had begun one of the happiest periods of his life thus far... One couldn't ask for such a miracle twice.

When John quieted, Mary resumed her work covering the mark on his neck. She leaned forward and pulled his collar back, trying to avoid getting makeup on his shirt. Some would inevitably rub off, but if she did her job right it wouldn't be noticeable and should come out in the wash. After a few more moments she leaned back, scrutinized her work and nodded. "Almost done," she declared, "It just needs to dry a bit." Without any warning she leaned forward again and blew softly on his neck.

John shivered at the sensation, feeling goosebumps breaking out over his skin.

Mary repeated her actions several times before leaning back and handing him her compact mirror. "What do you think?"

John squinted sidelong at the mirror and smiled. "Thank you, I can't see it at all anymore."

Mary smiled and accepted the compact back while John refastened his collar and tied his tie. "You're welcome. I've learned more than a few tricks in my time. Anything else I can help you with, Dr. Watson?"

"Call me John, please." John had asked her that before, but she never seemed to listen, or perhaps she just had a bad memory.

Mary's smile widened. "You've asked me to call you John before. I think that's a good trait. Too many doctors and officials these days stand on ceremony."

John nodded his agreement. "I only make people call me doctor or captain as a point if I'm angry."

"That's right, you were in the service too," Mary said, her gaze sweeping over him. "It looks like you've done very well for yourself after coming back."

A fleeting smile flew over John's face. He was grateful for the compliment, but a lot of what had kept him fit and focused over the last few years was gone… John felt his chest tighten, then took a breath. Sherlock was gone and to him the loss was devastating, but he would have to talk about it sooner or later. He'd become too well known as Sherlock's companion. Still, he didn't want, no... _couldn't_ tolerate anyone's sympathy right now. He schooled his features to a more neutral expression and forced himself to reply in a calm tone. "Thank you, I try." Then, eager for a change of topic, "I shouldn't keep you any longer; patients will be here soon."

Marry nodded and stood, "I hope you have a good day," she said with a wave and she walked towards the door.

John nodded and waved back. "You too."

* * *

John did not have a good day.

He was distracted and forgetful. His mind was foggy and he felt the gloom of Sherlock's absence weighing him down. John knew he was better than this. He'd had better days at the clinic on less sleep when he was still working cases with Sherlock. His patients shouldn't have to tolerate his bad day… Some of them looked a bit angry, but the ones that looked at him with uncertain pity were the worst, and it only distracted him more.

When the time came for lunch, eating was the last thing John wanted to do, but he made himself grab a small sandwich from the deli and managed to eat half of it before his stomach threatened to rebel. John was just wrapping up the remainder and placing it into his bag when he spied Sarah in the hallway.

"Sarah!" he cried out in greeting, lifting up his hand to catch her attention. She stopped, and her gaze shifted. Her expression was professional and neutral. John knew he'd been damn lucky she hadn't taken action against him before now, with all the missed and odd hours he'd had because of Sherlock. But that was about to change.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" John asked.

Sara nodded, changed course, and stepped into the provider's office. "How can I help you?" She asked, sitting on a chair beside him.

"I wanted to talk to you about picking up more hours," John said, trying to look energetic and focused.

Sara frowned at him and tilted her head to one side. "That hasn't been very successful in the past, John. I thought that was why we reduced your hours in the first place."

John nodded. "I understand, but my situation has changed." There was a long moment of silence and John knew he would have to elaborate. He reminded himself again to stay calm and not include unnecessary detail. Sherlock was always going on about unnecessary detail being the first sign of a lie. "I wanted to focus more on my medical practice, so I moved out of 221 B."

Sara looked thoughtful for a moment before replying. "Even so, you've made a commitment to Mr. Holmes, and-"

"I haven't," John cut her off. Her words stung, but he refused to let his emotions get the better of him. Not now. "Quite the opposite, actually."

"Oh?" Now Sara looked confused and intrigued.

John swallowed before he continued, another "tell" Sherlock was always lecturing him about. Apparently it was an indicator of strong, but suppressed emotion. As always, Sherlock was right. "I was very serious when I said I wanted to focus more on my medical practice. Sherlock and I…" The pause was painful and felt incriminating. "We are no longer associates. He is focusing on his work and I am focusing on mine." John silently begged Sara not to continue the questioning. It shouldn't be so hard, but it _was_. It was almost more than he could handle right now…his fingertips had begun to tremble because of the adrenaline coursing through his blood stream.

Sara looked thoughtful for a long moment, then sighed. "I hear what you're saying John, but I don't have any additional hours right now."

John pursed his lips and nodded. "I understand." He thought he did anyway. He'd shown his priorities through his actions and now that his priorities had changed, or rather, that they had to change, it would take time to show that this change had really taken place. "Will you keep me in mind if anything opens up?"

Sara nodded. "Yes, of course."

This was the part of working that John didn't like: the politics. He wasn't sure if Sara really was open to giving him more hours or if she was just saying that to be polite. It was hard to know where he stood. He _had_ made his own bed, though and he would need to make his peace with that now.

One never had to wonder where one stood with Sherlock; John supposed that had become part of the appeal. John hadn't known Sherlock was aware of his feelings, but he had been, and the moment Sherlock had come to a decision he'd acted on it… John forced himself to refocus. "Thank you for meeting with me Sara. If anything opens up, please let me know.

Sara smiled, nodded, and stood. "I hope you have a good day, John."

"Thank you," John replied with a fake smile he hoped looked genuine. In this moment he could understand Sherlock's frustration with niceties. Sherlock managed without them, but John wasn't him, and couldn't ever really operate that way. He was just hurting now, and everything was taking a little more effort than normal. It would get better. It had too.

* * *

Mary ended up covering the mark on his neck the next three times John worked at the surgery, for which John was both grateful and embarrassed. She never seemed to judge him, insisting each time he blushed that he was an adult and capable of making his own decisions.

John was both grateful and irritated that his hours had been so reduced. Grateful because it took over a week for the mark to fade, and however non-judgmental Mary might be, John still found it awkward and embarrassing for her to cover his mark for him. Irritated because now that his main focus was his work, he realized how little he was actually scheduled. It had almost worked with Sherlock's schedule, but now John's schedule was his own, and he was left with far too many hours to _think_.

He'd wanted to wait and see if Sara could offer him more hours at first, but now, given all this time to think, it was apparent that keeping busy would be the best thing for John's mental state. John _liked_ the surgery, but splitting ones time between multiple positions could be tricky, and as much as he needed to stay busy, he needed some stability in his life. With resignation and some small amount of trepidation, John had updated his resume, and begun searching for open positions.

John was in the break room, scrolling through some potential openings on his phone, it didn't feel right to use the surgery's computers, when one of the health care assistants tapped him on the shoulder.

It was Alex. She was young, barely twenty three, and contemplating making the plunge into medical school. She stared up at him expectantly with her bright blue eyes and brown hair framing her face. "Can I help you?" John asked with a small smile, pocketing his phone for now. He suspected she was here to pick his brain about Barts again.

He was wrong.

"Is it true? Have you really broken up with Sherlock, Dr. Watson?"

John bit the inside of his cheek and counted to ten. "I was never dating Sherlock Holmes." It had been a long time since John had tried to dissuade the general public from the notion that he and Sherlock were dating, but now John realized that had been just another way to lie to himself, another way to pretend he and Sherlock were more than what they were…

Alex frowned, "But I thought-"

"Come on, Watson," Dr. Bailey broke in. John hadn't noticed him enter the break room. He was a large man with brown hair and brown eyes. He was a good doctor but John had always found his people skills lacking. "You haven't been denying it for years now. There's no need to start again, just because things ended. That's childish."

John's jaw set in a hard line. "I stopped stating the obvious because it never seemed to help." His voice was terse, but John was pleased he managed to refrain from making a flippant comment, although he was sorely tempted. He was, however, going to put an end to this conversation. "Regardless of misinformation, my personal life is **not** up for discussion."

Bailey grinned in a way that rankled, and John made a concentrated effort not to scowl. Bailey shrugged and went back to the lunch he'd been laying out for himself with a flippant, "Whatever you say, Watson."

John turned his gaze back to Alex, who squeaked out a timid, "Sorry!" and hurriedly left the room. John sighed as silently as he could, pushed off the counter he had been leaning against, and made his way back to the provider office. He wasn't sure if there was _any_ place in London where he could get away from these kind of rumors… but he wasn't about the leave the city. Not because of Sherlock, not because of anyone. London was his _home_.

* * *

John was in the provider's office typing the last of his notes for the day. He might be strongly considering leaving the clinic if he could find some full time work, but he still wanted all of his work to be at its best. Being a doctor deserved his full attention.

It was quiet in the office, John had worked the closing shift today, which was his preferred shift. He came in later and had the potential to jump right into a chaotic situation and bring calm to it. John had long ago admitted to himself that he thrived on that type of adrenaline, another trait that had made Sherlock, and his cases, so appealing. But he liked the quiet that followed too. Right now he was almost alone in the office and the peace and stillness seemed to bring the day into balance, a moment to breathe before jumping right in again the next day… only he wasn't scheduled to work the next day.

John sighed and leaned his head into his hands, his elbows resting on the desk. Things were hard right now, but they would get better.

A soft knock made John lift his head. He smiled when he saw Mary. "Hey."

"Hey," she said, smiling back. She slipped into the office and sat on a chair beside him. "How was your day?"

John had known Mary for almost a year. They'd talked casually, but not often. Work friends: another thing that had fallen by the wayside in the past few years. "Good, actually, I'm just tired."

Mary nodded, her eyes sweeping over his face. "Well, I can tell it's not because you're in need of my makeup services again."

John chuckled and nudged her. "I think that's the _one_ thing in my personal life that's not office gossip."

"They'll settle down," Mary assured him. "People are idiots."

John's smile turned wistful. "That they are."

"Listen, John, I wanted to ask you to dinner tonight." Mary looked calm but serious.

John turned to look at her. "Really?"

Mary smiled again. "Yes. I have a free bedroom in my flat and I thought dinner would be an easy way for you to come take a look."

John's eyes widened. "I-" he started, but Mary cut him off.

"I'm not trying to pressure you, John. I just know what it's like to be in a tight spot. I don't need a flatmate, but I wouldn't mind one. I'm not a landlady, there wouldn't be any official paperwork, so if you tried it and wanted to leave, it would be easy. Well, as easy as what you're doing now."

John considered. It didn't seem like there was any reason not to. Mary was friendly enough, and if he was going to build new friendships he would have to start somewhere. It was unsettling to think how much of his life had revolved around Sherlock, in one way or another...

"I insist on helping you cook," John replied putting a friendly smile on his face.

Mary nodded and grinned. "Good, I was going to insist that you helped anyway." She stood and straightened her coat. "Shall we go?"

"Let's, "John agreed, submitting his notes and shutting down the computer for the night. As they made their way down the street, side by side, John saw Mary lift her hand to cover a yawn, a gesture which illuminated her wedding ring in the light of a passing car. It flashed brilliantly, but when the glare receded, John saw it held no jewels. The sparkle came from intricate etchings in the otherwise plain band. It was thicker than most women's wedding bands, which enhanced the effect of the etchings.

John worried his bottom lip for a moment, wondering at the wedding band. Now that he thought about it, he'd never seen Mary without it. He hadn't remembered it when she'd asked him to dinner, he'd been too distracted with the mess his life had become. _Was_ she still married? Was she married _at all_? The ring looked like a wedding band, and it was on the right finger, but Mary didn't exactly strike him as traditional. He could picture her wearing the ring simply because she liked it and it fit well, regardless of the finger it rested on.

Mary caught his eye as she lowered her hand and followed his gaze to her ring. She smiled fondly as she looked at the ring before looking back at John. "I insisted on our rings being exactly identical, and this was the one we both liked. It's technically a man's ring, they had to special order it in my size." She slipped her hand into her pocket, glancing forward as they walked. "Now that I think of it, they had to special order Sean's too, his fingers were ticker than normal."

A husband in the picture might change things. Not that John was considering this so he could see Mary, but even if Sean was a kind agreeable man, it would be awkward living with a couple for several reasons. John didn't really want anything to do with love at the moment. "Sean won't mind taking on a tenant?" John asked, dubious.

Mary smiled wistfully. "If he does, I dare him to come forward and voice his complaints personally." She turned to look at John, whose face was the picture of confusion. She sobered slightly and explained, "I'm a widow, John. I have been for five years."

John frowned. "I'm sorry."

Mary shook her head. "Don't be, Sean was an extraordinary man, and I loved every moment we had together. I wouldn't trade it for anything, even knowing how it would've turned out."

John studied Mary for a moment, considering. She seemed sad and resolute and happy all at the same time. The loss had obviously been devastating, she was still wearing an immaculate wedding ring, but it didn't appear that she'd stopped living her life, either. She'd always been a friendly face at the surgery, and a skilled nurse, calm under pressure. He was curious about her husband, but it seemed rude to ask more. He didn't want to broach any painful topics, he had several of his own he was keen on avoiding. Instead he asked, "So, what's for dinner?"

Mary's lips curled upwards at the edges, she looked grateful for the change in topic. "Salmon with a chipotle mango sauce and sautéed vegetables."

John's eyebrows lifted. "You must be quite the cook."

Mary chuckled softly, "It's not all that hard, really. Anyways I had to be, Sean was utterly hopeless in the kitchen." She glanced and John again and added, "I take it you're the same way?"

"Guilty," John admitted sheepishly.

Mary nodded, and John thought he could see a plan fall into place in her mind. "Alright, you stick to washing and cutting the vegetables, then you can tackle the dishes afterwards."

"Deal," John agreed.

* * *

Mary's flat was a short walk from the clinic, in an unremarkable looking building. John walked with her up three flights of stairs to her door: 355 A. Mary fished her keys out of her purse, and let them inside. John smiled when she flicked on the light. The switch was linked to a few lamps throughout the room, which bathed it in a soft glow. There was an overhead lamp, but it remained dark, and John wasn't sorry for it. The walls were a golden yellow, almost orange with white trim, and the floors were polished wood. The furniture in was sparse and sturdy, expensive pieces that wouldn't likely need to be replaced, and most of them were deep brown wood.

The front door of the flat led directly into the sitting room, just like 221B. There were two doors along the right wall, possibly the two bedrooms? There was a fireplace in the corner on the left wall with an intricately carved wooden table five feet back from it. Two plush green chairs with wooden legs bracketed the table. Pushed flush against the right corner wall was a matching moss green sofa. Between the sofa and the coffee table was a red oriental rug. There were windows in the wall opposite the front door with heavy brown drapes drawn over them. The room was lined with bookshelves of varying sizes, all wood, and a few tastefully placed pictures. Along the right wall was an open doorway to the kitchen. The tiles John could see where a warm tan or light orange, and the walls peeking out behind the pale wood of the cabinets was sky blue. Finally in the right corner, close to the front door was another wooden door with a black metal dragon emblem hung in the center, at eye level. The bathroom, perhaps?

"I've lived a lot of places," Mary said softly beside him, "I've developed some eclectic tastes."

John smiled, hoping to reassure her if she was nervous. "I think it looks very cozy."

Mary smiled and nodded. "Good, that's what I was going for." She pulled off her coat and hung it on a wrought iron wrack by the door. Then slipped briefly into the room with the dragon on the door. She didn't turn on the light, so John could only see dark shadows until she re-emerged without her purse.

John frowned and asked, "You left your purse in the bathroom?"

Mary looked at him for a moment then laughed. "No, that's my bedroom."

"Oh, sorry." John felt himself color slightly in embarrassment. That's what he got for trying to be clever.

"That door," Mary continued, pointing to the door in the opposite corner, "Is the guest bedroom, your room if you chose to stay. And that door," she shifted her finger to the other door in the right wall, "is the bathroom."

John nodded, his eyes sweeping over the doors once more before returning to Mary's smiling face. She must really like exposed wood, none of the doors in her flat were painted, only stained and polished.

"First things first," Mary began, rolling up her sleeves to the elbows. "I expect you to wash your hands thoroughly before you touch any food."

John smiled and nodded. "Yes ma'am." He followed Mary into the kitchen, and did as he was bid. The countertops were blue, just like the walls, and there was a small round table with two chairs tucked close by the windows along the far wall. Just like the sitting room there was an overhead light, but the light Mary had turned on appeared to come from LED lights nestled under the cabinets.

Mary must have seen him looking because she said, "I was in a bad car accident when I was younger. Since then I get migraines sometimes, and indirect light is easier to manage."

John nodded. He'd never suffered migraines, but, being a doctor, he had an intimate knowledge of how they could impact a life. He opened his mouth to say 'I'm sorry,' but thought better of it when he caught Mary's expression. She'd brushed off his last apology. She didn't seem like a woman who needed or appreciated sympathy. Instead he said, "This kind of lighting is better for your circadian rhythm anyway."

Mary smiled and replied, "Exactly."

Once his hands were clean, Marry handed him a bag of vegetables and directed him to the cutting board, which rested just beside a block of knives, close enough to the sink for any refuse to be run through the garbage disposal.

Mary brought out a pan and spread a little oil inside while John began chopping. Once the vegetables were chopped and the Salmon was finishing in the oven, Mary had another hot pan ready for sautéing. John helped her scoop the vegetables into the pan before she shooed him off. "I have it from here. Go wash your hands and check out the other bedroom."

John stepped around her to rinse the bits of vegetables from his hands, and tore off a bit of paper towel on his way into the sitting room. He stared at the two doors across from him for a moment before heading towards the one closer to the fireplace.

This turned out to be the bathroom.

Like a few things he'd seen about the apartment and about Mary, it wasn't what he had expected. The floor was covered in delicate black and white tiles, and there was a deep white tub set into the wall on the left. The toilet was to the right, and the sink directly in front of him, both unremarkable. The walls appeared to be wood, reminding John of a sauna, and the window on the far left wall was stained glass, glowing in the light from the streetlamps. It was beautiful and peaceful.

Tossing his used paper towel into the bin by the door, John turned around, closing the door behind him, and went to explore the spare bedroom. When John flipped on the light switch, lamps on the bedside table illuminated the room in a soft glow. The walls were a dark brown with white trim. The ceiling was also white, offering a sense of space to the room. The carpet which covered the floor was a lighter brown that accented the space well. The bed was large, a king size, with matching brown and white bedding. There was a piece of art hung above the bed, a snapshot of the deep woods. The bed frame and the bedside tables on either side of the bed were a deep brown wood that glowed in the light of the lamps. There was a dresser to the right of the door, and a wardrobe pushed against the far right wall. A small desk was flush with the far left wall with a black chair beside it and a small lamp atop it. The simple theme made the room feel cozy, secure. There were no windows, but John found he didn't miss them.

John entered the room, running his fingers along the furniture, and spent a few minutes sitting on the bed, which was surprisingly comfortable. He moved to the desk next, picturing his laptop on it. It would be a nice corner to update his blog...but what would he write about now? ...Would it be better to scrap the blog altogether? His chest tightened at the thought. No, he didn't want to take it down. Although his story ended differently, he completely agreed with Mary's earlier sentiments, he wouldn't have turned away from his years with Sherlock, even knowing the heartache they contained and how they would end; they were still the happiest years of his life. It might be better to consider not updating his blog anymore though. Having memories was one thing, he didn't want to be trapped in them.

"This used to be Sean's den before it was the guest room, brown was his favorite color. I think he might have gone a bit overboard."

John jumped slightly at the voice from the doorway and turned to see Mary leaning against the doorframe. "It's fine, I like it."

She nodded. "Good." Then she jerked her head to indicate the sitting room behind her. "Dinner's ready."

John stood and followed her out, turning off the lights and closing the door behind him as he did so.

Mary had turned on the gas fireplace and set the table in front of it with a plate on either side along with a glass of water and a glass red of wine. John could see she'd spread the vegetables in a circle around the plate, and nestled the salmon in the center. It was a very inviting picture.

"Please, have a seat," Mary invited, breaking John out of his momentary reverie.

John nodded and, smiling, took his seat opposite the small table with Mary. It was so different from the chaotic dinners at 221 B... it was a refreshing change of pace.

Mary waited until John had taken a few bites before asking, "What do you think?"

"It's good," John enthused, and it was. "Much better than I could have managed myself. truth be told I've been living on takeout and some dishes sent over by my old landlady for years now."

Mary smiled, pleased. "And the flat?"

John looked around and took a sip of his wine before answering. "It's very relaxing." It was an eerily good fit, so much so that it made John cautious. Mary, in many ways, appeared to be everything Sherlock wasn't. She was calm, friendly, and welcoming. But, John also perceived, she was more than met the eye, and this interested him too. If Sherlock had taught him anything, it was that he didn't like simple. He'd never had a woman for a flatmate, not that he thought it would be a problem. He was still hung up on Sherlock, and she was adamantly attached to her late husband. In a way, they made a good pair.

Mary nodded. "Good, I'm glad. That's what I intended when I decorated." She paused to take a bite of her food. After swallowing she added, "I don't want you to give me an answer about moving in tonight. I can see you're conflicted, and I don't blame you. It sounds like you're life's turned a bit upside down recently. Think about it for a few days at least. Come back for dinner if you need to, you're a good prep cook, and it's nice not to have to contend with dishes afterwards."

"Thank you," John replied softly. Mary's offer was both practical and heartfelt. He was grateful for the reprieve, and the offer both. He took a few sips of wine to steady himself and broached a new topic. "How long have you been in London?"

"Twelve years," she replied slowly, swirling her wine glass and staring into it. "Sean and I settled here after university. Took us a while to tie the knot, weddings are expensive no matter how simple they are."

John nodded, remembering the chaos that Harry's wedding hand entailed She'd looked so happy that day... She certainly wasn't happy now. She'd left Clara, who still loved her, and had been with her through so many hardships. And she was still drinking, killing herself a sip at a time.

John forced his mind away from such maudlin topics. It wouldn't do anyone any good. Instead he forced himself to focus on Mary, and found her staring at the fireplace mantle. John followed her gaze to a picture, it was of her wedding day. She stood beside her groom with a radiant smile reminiscent of the joy he had just recollected on Harry's face. Her husband, Sean, wasn't staring at the camera, he was smiling fondly at her. He was a tall man with dirty blond hair and blue eyes.

John shifted his gaze back to Mary and started. She looked _exactly_ like he felt. She wasn't crying or wracked with any obvious pain, but the love and devotion on her face shone clearly in the candlelight, illustrating her loss poignantly. You couldn't love like that without putting your heart on the line, and she had also lost.

Mary looked back at him a little wistful, but only a little. Had she offered him the spare bedroom because she thought he was equally heartbroken? John _was_ heartbroken, but he couldn't equate it with her loss. Sherlock was alive and he hadn't lost a lover, just a friend. Ultimately, as much as John may have wished, Sherlock and he had never built anything lasting...

There was a long silence while they ate, and not entirely a comfortable one. It was Mary who finally broke the silence, and the tension.

"In case the opportunity ever arises, I have no objections to you bringing back...guests, if your decide to take the spare room. Just be mindful of your...volume." A smirk played on her lips and humor shone in her eyes.

John felt a flush creeping up his neck. "I told you I don't really do that!" He insisted, torn between embarrassment and laughter.

Mary chuckled softly, and shrugged. "I don't judge."

She really didn't, and that was one of the things John found appealing. Sherlock was full of judgment, just not the usual kind.

The rest of the evening passed in quiet conversation. It was Mary doing most of the talking, and John was grateful for that too. Every time he opened his mouth lately it seemed he stumbled on something that brought him back to Sherlock. He knew it would fade with time, but that didn't make the process any more comfortable.

He learned that Mary was a bit of a homebody. She worked at the surgery, and spent most of her free time reading or crocheting. The sitting room sported several colorful and comfortable afghans that were her own work.

If he was being honest with himself, some peace, quiet, and normality sounded like exactly what he needed. "Do you still travel?" John asked, finishing off his salmon.

Mary looked down for a moment and shook her head. "No. Everything changed after Sean died…it made me re-evaluate what was really important."

John nodded slowly. He didn't feel like he could say he completely understood, because again Sherlock was alive and Sean was dead, but he felt much the same way in the wake of Sherlock's absence. Everything was different, and it could never be the same again.

Mary helped John clear the table, and then John gently but firmly insisted that he had agreed to do the washing up, and that Mary was not obligated to help. Mary left the kitchen, albeit reluctantly. When the last dish was neatly put away John strolled into the living room and found Mary curled on the couch. She had her head bent over a book, and she was murmuring quietly to herself as she read.

John leaned against the door frame and watched her, smiling. Mary was so caught up in the story she didn't look up for another five minutes, and when she did, she jumped. John chuckled. "Sorry, didn't meant to scare you."

Mary glowered at him, but without real force behind it. "Sean used to do the same thing, and it's still not funny."

"Not funny," John agreed, his hands raised in surrender as he stepped over to the couch and sat down beside her. "Do you usually read out loud?" If so he'd have to tell her not to stop on his account; living with Sherlock was the ultimate training in tolerating distractions. It might even be nice to hear snippets of stories, certainly a lot nicer that _eyes in the bloody microwave_.

Mary frowned. "No, why?"

"You were whispering while you read," John clarified.

Mary's expression shifted and John caught the barest hint of a blush. "Sorry, it's a bad habit."

"What were you doing if you weren't mouthing the words?"

"I was giving advice," Mary admitted, closing her book and setting it on a nearby bookshelf.

"Advice?" John asked.

"Yes," Mary agreed.

"To the character's in a book?" John pressed.

"I know it won't change anything, but I can't help it," Mary confessed. "I want to fix things, make things better."

"That's not a bad trait," John replied. "In fact I think it's a very good one." They shared a smile and a few moments of silence before John stood. Mary stood with him."

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Mary," John began. "I haven't had a proper dinner like that in a long time."

"You're welcome, Mary replied, still smiling. "You're welcome back anytime you'd like more, cleaning up after is the worst part in my opinion."

They walked together to the door, which Mary opened for him. "I'll see you again next Thursday?" Mary asked.

John paused; mentally reviewed his work schedule, then nodded. "Yes, and I should be able to give you an answer by then."

"No rush," Mary assured him. "Whatever you want to do is fine."

John nodded and waved, a gesture which Mary returned, and then he stepped through her door and began the solitary trek back to his motel room. He wanted to stay longer, but Mary was right. It wouldn't do to go from one undesirable situation to another. One step at a time.

* * *

John mentally rehearsed his answers in his head, trying to take deep, even breaths. He'd never been a fan of interviews, he doubted anyone was, but this one felt like it had a lot riding on it.

He had spent his days between Mary's dinner and his next shift at the surgery sending out his resume and applying for posted positions throughout London. He knew any job search could be a long haul, it had been last time, and he wanted to put forth a strong effort. He _needed_ a regular distraction from his thoughts at the moment.

John had been so braced for the long haul, in fact, that he hadn't properly understood at first when he'd received a call from Charing Cross Hospital to schedule an interview less than a week later. He intended to take Mary up on her offer, but he wanted to get this interview out of the way first. Mary, true to her word, hadn't pressured him, or even asked. She'd simply shared lunch with him and helped him prepare some interview questions to practice.

He was sitting in a waiting room just adjacent to the ambulance bay and John could hear each new case as it was brought in. It made his adrenaline race, and he had to remind himself more than once not to jump up and start helping.

 _"_ _Female, mid-thirties, fractured ribs, hiking fall."_

 _"_ _Male, nineteen, alcohol poisoning."_

 _"_ _Male, forty-five, heart attack."_

Sherlock had, more or less, accused him of being an adrenaline junkie. Sherlock, naturally, had been right. It was part of what had made life with Sherlock so appealing, one never knew what was coming next. He'd have to find a different kind of excitement now, and an Accident and Emergency Hospital seemed like the perfect place.

"John Watson?" John saw the additional questions brimming behind the man's eyes. He heard them a lot, especially since Sherlock and he had ended their…association.

 _Are you_ _ **the**_ _Dr. Watson?_

 _The one who works with Sherlock?_

 _What's it like?_

John could only hope those questions would remained unasked this time, and that his reputation of working with Sherlock wouldn't be held against him. He stood and looked around, locking eyes with a dark eyed, dark haired man in a long white coat. "That's me," John announced, striding forward with his hand out.

They shook hands and the other man said, "Welcome, thank you for coming, John. My name is Eric Brown. My office is just back this way."

John followed Eric down a short hallway to a neat office lined with diplomas and medical texts. Eric sat behind the desk and gestured for John to take the seat across from him. John sat.

"Do you have any questions before we get started?" Eric asked, leaning back in his chair, and picking up a clip board that had been resting on his desk.

"It said in the advert that the hours were variable. What is the shift rotation?"

"Good question," Eric replied, pausing to make a few notes on the papers on his clipboard. "Our shifts rotate every week. One week you would work the first shift, then next week the second shift, and the week after the third shift."

John nodded, that sounded like a decent system.

"I noticed in your application you're open to being called to cover shifts that open unexpectedly," Eric said, glancing at the papers on his clipboard and back at John.

John nodded. "That's correct. I'm used to being flexible with my schedule." He had been used to that before Sherlock, but now it was second nature.

Eric nodded and made some more notes. "Good, good. That's always very helpful. Hospital schedules can be hectic, especially Accident and Emergency, it's always nice to know we can have more hands on deck when we need them." Eric rearranged the papers on the clipboard, then looked back up at John. "Why do you want to work for Charing Cross Hospital?"

"For the past several years I've been working for a small surgery, which was a good reintroduction to regular medicine after I was invalided home from the military, and recently I've decided I want to focus more heavily on my medical career. There aren't many hours available at the surgery, so I've been exploring my options." It _was_ true. The only version of the truth he felt up to sharing with others, anyway.

Eric nodded and smiled, and made more notes. "Why would you be a good candidate for this position?"

"I work well under pressure, I always have, and I like helping others. That's one of the reasons I joined the army, it seemed like the perfect mix."

"Hence the appeal of an accident and emergency hospital?" Eric asked, gesturing with his hand as if to indicate the building they were in.

"Precisely," John agreed.

"Tell me about your multitasking and prioritization skills," Eric asked, staring back down at his clip board again.

"Life or death situations always come first. If someone's coding, or critically unstable, that's where my attention needs to be. I'm good at focusing in crowded, high noise environments." No one in an Accident or Emergency room could possibly be as bad as Sherlock when he was in one of his moods. John immediately pulled away from the thought. "And I'm used to issuing orders, delegating to the team I'm working with. It served me well in the army, I was promoted to Captain."

The questions went on like that for a while.

 _What is your greatest strength?_

 _What is your greatest weakness?_

 _Where do you see yourself in ten years?_

 _How do you handle conflicts with co-workers?_

Although he restricted himself to medical examples, John often thought of his experiences on cases with Sherlock. It didn't help that many of the questions, in fact this whole process seemed tedious.

Tedious… the word was ruined for him forever

At last the questions were over and Eric was standing, smiling, and holding out his hand for John to shake. John shook it, smiling back.

"Thank you for coming in to speak with me, Dr. Watson. We're conducting interviews all this week, checking references next week, and we hope to get back to people late next week or early the week after."

John nodded. "Thank you. I look forward to hearing back from you."

Eric escorted John back to the waiting room, shook his hand once more, then called the next person in. John nodded to a tall woman with long dark curls as they passed each other, and made his way out onto the street. John forced himself to walk to a nearby park at sit down at a bench before he called Mary.

"How did it go?"

John chuckled. He was used to not getting a hello when he called people, but Mary's question was much nicer than Sherlock's order to "Speak" or to ignore his call and start texting him.

"I think it went well," John said, "it's always hard to tell with these things."

"Agreed. Don't think too much about it, you'll only make yourself crazy. Do you know when you'll hear back?"

"In the next few weeks I hope. I'm still surprised they called me so quickly."

"They must really need the help," Mary mused. "Be careful not to overwork yourself."

"I don't think I'm in much danger of that," John assured her. If anything he needed the work for his own sense of well-being. He was still in danger of having too much time to think, especially if Sherlock could creep into his mind so often during one interview.

"Let me know when you hear back, okay?"

John nodded even though Mary couldn't see him, and winced. Sherlock had lectured him every time he'd done this during a phone call.

 _It's a natural but unnecessary impulse, John. Over ninety percent of human communication is nonverbal._

John had always suspected Sherlock continued the lecture just to irritate him... But that didn't matter now. "Listen, Mary, before you go, there was one other thing I wanted to talk about."

"I'm all ears," Mary encouraged. "I'm on break for another fifteen minutes. What's on your mind?"

John took a breath. "I've been thinking about your offer to be flatmates, and I've decided to accept, assuming you're still interested."

It was technically impossible, but John still swore he could hear Mary grin. "That's wonderful news John. Of course I'm still interested. When were you thinking of moving in?"

"Would this coming Saturday be alright?" John asked. "I don't want to disrupt your schedule."

Mary chuckled. "This Saturday is fine, John. Come sooner if you want to, it's really no bother at all."

John nodded, not deterred from his plan in the slightest. "See you this Saturday. Let's say 10:00am?"

"See you then," Mary agreed.

They said their goodbyes and John hung up the phone, a small smile on his lips, pleased with the steps he had taken to put his life in order. It wasn't going to be a fast process, but he would see it through, one step at a time.


	7. Through the Looking Glass

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to sweetmarly and Brown Eyes Girl-62 for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

 **TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of Domestic Violence**

* * *

Chapter Six: Through the Looking Glass

Sherlock lay on the sofa, staring up at ceiling of the sitting room, listening to the rain attack the windowpanes. His hands, usually so carefully pressed together just under his chin lay limp and listless, one cascading off the edge of the sofa and trailing on the floor, the other draped across his abdomen. His brilliant mind, normally swirling with a million thoughts, connecting the smallest but most crucial bits of detail together into the deduction that would solve a case, was painfully focused on only one thing:

 _John…_

It was supposed to be simple, over and done with and back to normal…but it wasn't… _Everywhere_ he turned he was confronted with reminders of John's absence, and instead of deleting irrelevant details and refocusing, his mind would stutter over a memory and lose its way entirely.

He hadn't wanted this, hadn't asked for it, and had, in fact, gone to considerable lengths to avoid it. Sherlock didn't have friends, didn't indulge in sentiment because it only complicated matters. For all his good intentions John had never been able to deny that caring about others did not help save them, more often than not it endangered them. The first person to examine in _every_ murder was the person closest to the victim. The lover, the parent, the best friend; all were incalculable liabilities.

Sherlock had suffered no trauma or heartache to make him cautious, he'd simply observed while his 'peers' had dived headlong into hormonal driven disasters. Love was a risk not worth taking, the ultimate distraction from what one truly valued. John had loved him, and had only multiple emotional traumas to show for it…

He had thought their partnership would end after his fall, it would have been better for them both if it had. Instead John had returned. He'd been angry, furious with Sherlock for the deception, but within a month he'd moved right back into Baker Street as if he belonged there. Sherlock hadn't expected that. He'd expected hysterics, possibly even a new enemy. Instead John had…forgiven him? Yes, Sherlock could clearly recall the sudden difference in the way John had held himself, had looked at him.

Sherlock hadn't expected forgiveness. It had thrown him completely off guard, but, remarkably, that wasn't a first where John Watson was concerned. Sherlock wasn't perplexed often, and as a result of his bewilderment he had never questioned John's decision to move back in. John was a helpful associate and an entertaining flatmate, when there were no cases. It had been…easy.

And then John had fallen in _love_ with him.

Love.

It was the end of so many things, it should hardly be a surprise that it had been then end of his association with John. He'd had to do _something_. He couldn't have let John stay, _loving_ him with as much subtlety as a falling tree.

And yet…

Sherlock let out a slow breath, feeling his chest tighten. He'd done the most ill-advisable thing he ever could have done:

He'd fallen in _love_ with John.

Sherlock wanted to deny it, had probably spent months realizing and deleting that fact, but now that John wasn't around to distract him, there was no escaping it.

He was in _love_ with _John Watson_ , and he'd sent him away...

There was no taking it back; John had made that abundantly clear. Sherlock wasn't even sure he wanted to. To feel vulnerable emotions was one thing, but to act on them… It was a pointless struggle, everything was already over and done with. What he needed to focus on now was his cases, his experiments, his clients. Those had always been his priorities, and they weren't going to change. Now if only he could focus…

What was it John had written about him in that blog? Emotions are the grit in a sensitive machine? They had never been Sherlock's words, but they certainly rang true now. For the life of him he couldn't concentrate, couldn't work cases, couldn't do what he had built his life around doing.

"Drink your tea, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked and looked to his left. Mrs. Hudson was sat on John's armchair, sipping her own cup of tea. Between them, on the coffee table, was a tea pot, another cup with saucer, and a plate of biscuits.

Mrs. Hudson had spoken calmly, her voice as chipper and friendly as ever, but Sherlock knew she would take more drastic measures if he didn't comply. Mrs. Hudson was stubborn and had the potential to be much more forceful than most people realized. Sherlock had always liked that about her. It was that very resilience that had sustained her as his landlady all these years.

Sherlock shifted, and rose to a seated position. He leaned against the armrest for a moment until a sudden dizziness abated, then he reached for his tea. Perhaps he had been on the sofa longer than he realized. Time did tend to get away from him when he was thinking. At least that hadn't changed.

Sherlock lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip, letting the warm liquid sooth his throat while he took stock of his transport. He should definitely eat today.

"I think you've moped about for long enough, don't you?" Mrs. Hudson asked, peering at him over the edge of her tea cup.

"I am not moping," Sherlock declared, lifting his cup for another sip and draining it.

Mrs. Hudson set her own cup down and lifted the teapot to refill Sherlock's, all the while sending him a look that clearly communicated she was neither fooled nor amused.

"Have you tried apologizing?" Mrs. Hudson asked, setting the tea pot down once Sherlock's cup was full again.

Sherlock barked out a humorless laugh and didn't bother to answer. What good would apologizing do now? He had acted, John had responded. There was no going back, not from this…

Mrs. Hudson shook her head disapprovingly. "Sherlock, this is one place your stubbornness won't help you, I'm afraid."

Sherlock sipped his tea, not bothering to respond.

"Love forgives, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson pressed on, undeterred. "Or at least it can if you fight for it."

"Please tell me you didn't come up here to smother me with platitudes," Sherlock retorted.

"No, I came to send you on errands," Mrs. Hudson replied, pulling out a thin sheet of paper from her skirt pocket.

"Errands?" Sherlock asked haltingly.

"Errands." Mrs. Hudson repeated, holding out the paper to Sherlock. "I can't make you fight for your relationship, Sherlock, even if you are an idiot for not fighting, but I will make you replenish our supplies if _only_ to get you out of the house."

Sherlock started at the paper before him for a long moment, staring past it to the newest dent in Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper. Greg had called some time ago, possibly days, and when Sherlock hadn't called back, Mycroft had started calling. Sherlock had used his own phone for target practice to get the ringing to stop. Even so, it would not be long until his elder brother deigned to visit. He had forgotten how irritating those visits could be, they'd mostly stopped since John moved in…

Without moving his gaze from the wall Sherlock reached out and took the piece of paper. "At least I have plenty of company. Most people are idiots."

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly at him as he rose and shrugged into his Bellstaff coat.

* * *

Normally, when he deigned to do something as plebian as to run an errand, it was easy for Sherlock to zone out, to half enter his mind palace and let his transport operate on muscle memory. Today... for the last several days in fact, he just couldn't do it. Everything was muffled, muted, and difficult to concentrate on. It took him ages to find the store, and then ages more to collect the small group of items Mrs. Hudson had sent him for. It could be his body responding to his recent lack of sleep and food, but Sherlock knew that wasn't the only factor at play. His entire system was stalled and he couldn't seem to reset it.

When he finally arrived at the self check out station, the chip and pin machine was malfunctioning. That thought shouldn't make him smile, but it did. He was standing there, in the middle of Tesco's with an idiotic, poignant smile on his face.

 _You took your time._

 _Yeah, I didn't get the shopping._

 _What? Why not?_

 _Because I had a_ _ **row**_ _in the shop with a chip and pin machine._

 _You had a row with a machine?_

 _Sort of. It sat there, and I shouted abuse at it._

"Sir?"

A light touch on his arm caused Sherlock to turn and he found a slender blond girl looking up at him with concerned dark brown eyes. "I can check you out over here," she said, gesturing to a customer service counter that was currently closed.

Not only was he feeling sentiment, and very strong sentiment too, despite all his best efforts to avoid it entirely, but now he was publicly displaying it to the point that benign shop clerks were concerned about him. This was definitely a problem.

Sherlock nodded, gathered his supplies, and followed her. She silently rung up his items and when she was done Sherlock handed over his card, never saying a word back to her. She was chatting softly to him in some vague effort to comfort or console him, and it was infuriating. This irritation was compounded by the fact that he refrained from snapping at the clerk only because John's frequent and varied admonishments about such behavior were ringing in his head.

He felt the cold air of oncoming winter hit him as he stepped outside the shop and forced himself to observe the people passing by. It had been many years since he'd practiced his skills on people in the street; the last time had been part of a contest Mycroft and he had played as children, but in that moment he was willing to grasp onto anything that would bring back a sense of control.

A man in his forties passed by, with dull dark eyes heavily bruised underneath from lack of sleep. He had dark messy hair, gaunt cheeks, and uneven stubble. His clothing was tough but had seen much better days. All this in combination with the sickly sweet smell Sherlock briefly detected indicated the man was alcoholic, likely sleeping rough. The gaunt cheeks and shadows under his eyes could be from sleeping rough or from an amphetamine habit. If he used amphetamines, however, it was probably to stay awake because he didn't have a safe place to sleep. The sickly sweet smell was coming out of the man's pores, a feeble protest from his overtaxed liver.

A woman in her thirties stopped under a street lamp and talked with her husband, the matching rings gave them away. The rings were spotless, so it was a happy marriage. It was cold but she had her coat unbuttoned, providing a glimpse of her ample bosom that swelled almost over her sweater. Her jeans where designer and would fit her perfectly, if the first button wasn't unbuttoned. Her sweater covered her waist, but Sherlock could tell she had one button undone because of the pattern of the stitching of her jeans was just slightly misaligned. She wore comfortable winter boots but kept shifting from foot to foot as though pained or anxious. No anxiety was evident on her face, only joy. Discomfort, swollen feet most likely, caused her fidgeting then: she was pregnant.

A young man walked ahead of Sherlock holding the hand of a four year old girl. The girl had sturdy boots, a warm coat, and a pink woolen hat. She skipped beside her guardian, carefree. The young man's clothes were simple but warm. He smiled down at the girl as she looked up and beamed at him. In that shared smile Sherlock knew they were siblings, not father and daughter. The genetic similarities were too consistent. He was her guardian though, probably had custody. That much was obvious in the way he held her hand and looked at her, his expression was part love and part fear. He'd only recently taken on the responsibility, but he was doing a good job. Children that young were terrible liars and she was as carefree as she appeared. Time would tell if she stayed that way long.

A young couple huddled together under the awning as they walked down the street. They were walking towards Sherlock, in the space of a quarter of a minute they'd be past him and on their way. The man was tall with broad shoulders, dark eyes, and a strong jaw. The woman also had dark features, with stunningly pale blue eyes. She was shorter than the man she was with, but actually a bit tall for a woman, and had a strong frame. Her rain coat was plain and black.

Sherlock recalled seeing her before; she had walked a pack of dogs by Baker Street while he was playing the violin. It had been night, as it was now, and she was hard to see with her black hair and coat. The dogs, however, were easy to spot. Each one wore a brightly colored reflective vest and several had bright flashing lights attached to their collars. She had walked the dogs with practiced ease, mindful to keep them all together and calm. She obviously cared more for the animals than she did herself, the coats told him that. He doubted she had a dog of her own though. She was a secretary by day, the way she'd moved her wrists had given that away, so her dog walking was a secondary employment. She didn't need the money, he could see that then and now by the clothes she wore. They weren't designer, but they weren't cheap either. Walking dogs was not a job one wore one's best clothes to, but it was a job. Seeing her now, likely on a date or running errands with her lover, it was confirmed that these were her casual clothes. Someone hurting for money did not wear clothes like hers casually.

Sherlock's eyes strayed to their interlocked hands. They were lovers, had been for years. A quick glance at each of their left hands confirmed they were not married. Sherlock's gaze lingered in their hands. She was holding his, but he was clutching hers. The slight tremor in his hand and the paleness of his knuckles betrayed the force with which he held her. Not only that, but he was crowding her against the buildings they passed. It was subtle, and to a less trained observer it would appear that he was trying to shelter her from the rain, but this was about dominance.

The way he gripped her and her lack of self-confidence, made obvious by her lack of reflective gear when walking the dogs would be evidence enough for an unhealthy relationship, but the way her eyes darted quickly to his face and down to the street whenever his gait pushed her against him confirmed it.

She was afraid.

Sherlock found himself stepping in front of the couple as the approached. The man glowered, his grip tightening on his partner and the woman cowered slightly. Sherlock put on his most approachable smile. "Excuse me, miss. I'm sorry to intrude but I remembered seeing you walking dogs past the building where I live. Do you do so professionally?"

Sherlock waited a beat, but she made no move to reply, although she seemed to relax slightly. He pressed on before her boyfriend could interject. "I ask because my landlady just acquired a small Spaniel from her nephew, and she's looking for a little help walking him." Sherlock shrugged, indicating the bag of groceries in his arms. "I was just helping her with the shopping when I recognized you, so I thought I would ask about the dog walking."

The woman's face lightened and she smiled at him, feeling more in her element. She opened her mouth to answer when her boyfriend interjected.

"Do you mind?" His voice was rough and angry. He held up their joined hands and shook them in front of Sherlock's face. "We're busy!"

Sherlock softened his face with regret and kept his voice low. "I'm so sorry, I was only thinking of Charlie, the spaniel. He grew up with Mrs. Hudson's nephew and isn't adjusting well to the transition. This young woman handled the dogs she was walking so well, and some socializing might be good for him."

"Dan, it's no—" the woman was cut off, wincing as her boyfriend's grip on her hand tightened. He was dangerously close to dislocating a joint if he continued. Sherlock had deliberately provoked the reaction, he had known his demeanor would put the woman at ease. He had suspected, and she had just proven, that dog care was a topic she was willing to stand up to her boyfriend about, at least somewhat. Sherlock had riled the other man's temper, now he needed it focused on him.

Sherlock reached out, and with the use of his natural strength, which no one ever seemed to anticipate, and his knowledge of pressure points, he separated the couple's hands. The woman immediately withdrew her hand, clutching it to her chest and rubbing it to ease the ache. She looked between Sherlock and her boyfriend with a haunted, frightened look. She wasn't happy with this development, but she remained silent.

Sherlock pressed his advantage by stepping between them, forcing the man to step back. Sherlock smirked as the man's face flushed crimson. When he spoke he kept his tone soft, and condescending. "Why don't you let me talk it over with her, hm?"

"Back off," 'Dan' hissed, jerking out of Sherlock's grip. Sherlock made him fight for the release, while keeping his demeanor calm and unaffected.

"This will just take a few seconds," Sherlock insisted, stepping back, fractionally increasing the difference between the couple. "I don't want to cause any trouble, I just want to talk to-" Sherlock paused, looped an arm around the woman's waist and drew her tightly to his side. "What did you say your name was, my dear?"

"S-Susan," She stammered, shying away from him as much as his hold would allow. He wasn't holding her tightly, but she wasn't struggling. The muscles under his fingertips quivered but didn't strain, he was leaning back with her legs and shoulders, she likely didn't feel she could protest more forcefully.

"Susan," Sherlock repeated in a low voice, smiling intimately at her, before slowly turning back to face her boyfriend.

Dan's fist caught him full in the face and while he staggered, it was partly staged. He didn't want to push Susan back into the storefront, in fact he used the movement to place himself between them again The stagger also caught the attention of surrounding pedestrians. Sherlock licked his lips and tasted blood. It was hard not to smile, but he'd learned early on in his profession that you never tipped your hand too early.

Dan surged at him again and Susan was screaming behind him. Sherlock managed to deflect the second blow. Dan never got to try a third time, several University Football students rushed up and brought him to his knees. "Just keep him from trying to kill anyone until the police arrive," Sherlock instructed the young men while he pulled out his phone. They all nodded, intent on their task. They were motivated more by Susan than Sherlock. Sherlock's stumbling had gotten their attention and Susan's screaming had elicited a protective instinct which was magnified by societal norms and expectations. As much as it was passively allowed in general, beating a woman in the street was still taboo. Sherlock had noted the University students a ways down the street when he'd begun speaking to the couple. He hadn't planned on them, but they were a welcome resource.

The moment Lestrade picked up Sherlock barked the address at him and hung up.

They didn't need to wait long.

Seven and a half minutes later three police cars and an ambulance converged on the scene, which had generated a sizable crowd of gawkers. Normally onlookers were only a complication; now, however, Sherlock intended to use them to his advantage. Susan was already hyper-vigilant and jittery, glancing around nervously as adrenaline raced through her system. He needed her on-edge.

Lestrade strode through the crowd. Looking unimpressed and irritated. He paused in front of them taking in the scene. He glared young men holding Dan down before shifting his gaze to Sherlock. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

"I didn't do anything, Lestrade, I have been assaulted." Sherlock said in a voice that portrayed a hurt he did not feel.

"Isn't that a daily occurrence for you?" Lestrade asked, shifting his weight to one foot and looking unimpressed.

"Oi, it's true!" one of the footballers piped up. "I saw this guy hit him! And it looked like he was going after the girl too!"

There was a rumbling of agreement from the crowd around them as well as the other footballers. Lestrade held up his hands for silence, then spoke again, addressing the footballers first. "You lot, let him up. The police are here now, and we'll make sure the situation is resolved." They complied, albeit reluctantly. Dan stood, glaring at everyone around him and tediously, in Sherlock's opinion, trying to loom over anyone who got too close.

Lestrade shifted his attention to Sherlock next. "You. Tell me everything, and from the beginning."

Sherlock adopted his most innocent, concerned expression, much to Lestrade's apparent annoyance. "I was just running out to get the shopping for Mrs. Hudson, when I saw Susan and this individual walking down the street. I remembered I'd seen Susan walking dogs and wanted to ask her if she would consider taking on Mrs. Hudson's new Spaniel. When I started to discuss the details, he stuck me."

Lestrade sighed loudly and through his nose in a way that indicated he was _not_ pleased. He had known Sherlock long enough, however, not to call him out on it here because, presumably, he had a good reason for it.

"That's not true!" Dan yelled, pressing in on Sherlock's personal space until even Lestrade had to step in and ease him back. Dan angrily shoved off Lestrade's hand on his shoulder. "He was being fresh!"

"No he wasn't!" Several of the footballers chimed in.

Susan was shifting from foot to foot, almost completely concealed behind Sherlock while Dan fumed. Lestrade needed to peer around Sherlock's shoulder to try to make eye contact, but her eyes were trained on the pavement. Sherlock stepped aside when Lestrade stepped forward, creating even more distance between her and her boyfriend. Dan opened his mouth as if to protest, then snapped it shut again, glowering at the footballers, the crowd, and especially at Sherlock. His face was turning a livid red from the strain of controlling himself.

"Miss?" Lestrade asked Susan as he stepped closer, grateful that Sherlock was blocking their view of her boyfriend and most of the rest of the crowd. Whatever was going on, the woman in front of him was terrified. Lestrade was rapidly coming to the conclusion that this woman was at the center of whatever Sherlock had stuck his nose into this time. If he was going to get any answers from her, however, he needed to help her calm down. "Is your name Susan?"

She nodded once, but still would not look up at him.

"My name is Gregory Lestrade, I'm a Detective Inspector with the New Scotland Yard."

No response.

Greg let out a long slow breath and drew upon the patience Sherlock had helped him develop over their long association. "I'm sure my friend here has done something unpleasant. He does that a lot actually. I'm sorry for the inconvenience." Lestrade offered her a warm smile when her eyes darted up to his for the briefest moment, then away again. "If you could let me know what happened, I'll do my best to wrap this all up and let you get on with your evening."

"I-I...um," Susan murmured, brushing her hair behind her ear and licking her lips. Her eyes darted nervously over the pavement, unable to focus on a fixed spot and unable to meet anyone's gaze.

"You tell them, Susan!" Dan spat, lunging forward before the enthusiastic football players restrained him once more. He surged against their arms like a bull in a tether. "End this nonsense, we need to get home!"

Susan flinched, drawing her arms partway up to her face and hunching her shoulders as she inhaled sharply.

"No one if going to hurt you, Susan," Lestrade soothed, leaning towards her so that he could keep his voice low. "Would you like to head inside and speak?" Lestrade gestured to a nearby coffee shop with a toss of his head, but before Susan could answer, or not answer, Sherlock interjected.

"Wrong."

Lestrade bit back a sigh and glowered at Sherlock. "Now is really not the time, Sherlock."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at Lestrade, turning his back to Dan, trusting the football players and the police officers to keep him in line. "Is that so? Do you only tackle domestic violence cases during the nine to five hours?"

Lestrade bristled as Sherlock knew he would. Lestrade cared about getting his job done right and actually wanted to serve the people, or some such nonsense. Sherlock pressed on, not waiting for an answer. He was trying to jostle Susan into action, not Lestrade.

"Look at her, Lestrade, it's written all over her," Sherlock gestured with his hand and Susan flinched again, folding in on herself as thought she could will herself to disappear. "The way she flinches when anyone raises their voice or their hand-"

"You've created quite a spectacle out here, Sherlock. You forget I'm used to working with you," Lestrade cut in.

"Yes, but her injuries indicate abuse over a long period of time, not an anxiety reaction," Sherlock countered back.

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He didn't like this. Sherlock was a drama queen but he usually didn't make this big of a scene, not in public like this. Crowds could get rowdy easily and become difficult to control under the wrong circumstances. It was only their long history of working together that kept Lestrade from insisting that they move. "What injuries, Sherlock?"

Sherlock lifted his hand and gestured to her face. "Broken jaw, three years ago. There's a deviation in the line and thickness of the bone indicative of a badly healed break." Sherlock lifted his hand slightly. "They did a better job with the nose, probably because it's more visible, and as a larger aesthetic impact. There's been surgery to restore the nasal passageways and reduce swelling."

Sherlock's finger drifted downwards next, hovering over Susan's shoulder. "Her posture indicates chronic back pain likely from tension and from muscle bruising or pulling." Sherlock finger drifted down again, stopping at her ribs. "Her breathing pattern indicates she has at least three bruised ribs on her right side." Sherlock's finger moved again stopping at her left knee. "Torn ligaments there on the mend, she's favoring it much more than the right side, although…" Sherlock's finger dropped again to her left ankle, "This has been broken, twice before, and that exacerbates the variations in her gait.

Susan was leaning heavily on the wall now, halfway to her knees and breathing heavily. Before she could recover or Lestrade interject, Sherlock pressed on. "Is that why you never got a dog, Susan? Would Dan have beaten your dog too?"

Susan started shaking her head violently.

"No?" Sherlock pressed, crouching down slightly to be closer to her eye level. "He wouldn't have gone after it? Trapped it when it was alone? He wouldn't have starved it, beaten it, used it's fur to hide its' bruises? Fur is a better concealer than any makeup."

Susan whimpered and scrunched her eyes tightly shut, still shaking her head. Lestrade placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, trying to call him off, but Sherlock shrugged him off, determined to see his task through. "Are you so sure he won't go after the dogs you do walk? They aren't yours, but you care about them, they matter. They take you away from him and this whole conversation has made him so livid I'm not sure that taking it out of your hide will be enough for him." Sherlock paused meaningfully, watching Susan's lips tremble as though she was about to cry or speak. "I can see it now. He'll follow you, he's good at that; he's been doing it a lot longer than you think. He'll wait until you're near a dark ally and force you in. It doesn't matter what happens to the dogs, they're collateral damage, easily paid off."

"No!" Susan insisted, her eyes snapping open and fixing on Sherlock. "No, that won't happen, I protect my clients!" Her voice was shaky but it was clear, and loud enough to reach some of the crowd around them. Her shoulders were drawn back now because she'd lifted her head and straightened slightly.

Sherlock held back a smile of satisfaction because he knew he was right. Susan had many classic symptoms of PTSD and being a victim of domestic violence. She frightened easily, made excuses for her boyfriend, and covered up her injuries, but she still had a strong drive to protect the dogs she looked after. It was the one thing she hadn't let herself stop caring about.

"How do you expect to protect them after tonight?" Sherlock asked, raising his arms to indicate the scene around them. "This is a public spectacle now, he has been questioned, humiliated. Do you _really_ think he is going to let this go?"

Haltingly, Susan lifted her eyes from Sherlock's to Dan's, and she paled. Dan's face was no longer a livid red, it was stern and cold. It was the kind of expression that could appear calm and concerned, but Susan _knew_ that expression. Dan was always most dangerous when he was silent, because when he was silent, he was planning.

Sherlock leaned forward slightly, and the movement caught Susan's attention, forcing her eyes back to his. "This best and _only_ chance you have to keep those dogs safe is to be honest with Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock turned and looked over his shoulder at Lestrade before standing and stepping away.

Lestrade stepped into the opening that Sherlock had created and started speaking softly with Susan. Sherlock couldn't quite make out their voices but he could read lips. He watched Lestrade suggest that they talk privately, away from all this noise. Lestrade offered to escort her back to the station himself, and in a separate car from Dan. Susan started to glance up after a moment, started to look to Dan, but Sherlock shifted, and intercepted her gaze with a meaningful one of his own. Slowly he lifted one eyebrow and waited. At last she turned back to Lestrade and nodded once.

That nod was all Lestrade needed. He stood and started issuing orders. One of the officers with him detained Dan and began escorting him back to their car. The other officer began to disperse the crowd that had gathered around them. Lestrade turned back to Susan and offered her his hand. She took it and straightened, walking close beside him towards his own patrol car.

Sherlock adjusted the bag of groceries that had rested in his arm all this while, allowing circulation back into his fatigued muscles. It was fortune that it was cold out, there was likely to be little if any damage to the produce because of his unplanned delay. He had just begun to step away to return to 221 B when Lestrade called for him. Sherlock turned his head and saw Lestrade waiving him over to the car. Sherlock frowned, but followed the summons.

"I'm going to need your statement," Lestrade said quietly, glancing into his car where Susan was seated, and then at the grocery bag Sherlock was still holding. "But it can wait until tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded. "What time?"

Greg blinked and hesitated. He wasn't used to Sherlock being so cooperative, not with the cleanup of a case. Once he'd solved something he was rushing on to the next case or experiment, or whatever else would keep him occupied. Then again, things had been markedly different since John left, or, as Mycroft had put it, since Sherlock ordered him out. Greg wasn't as keen on knowing all the details as his lover was, but he knew Sherlock well enough to know he was hurting in a way he hadn't before. "Will 10:00am give you enough time to finish whatever experiment is in there?" Greg asked, gesturing to the bag with his chin.

Sherlock sighed loudly and shoved the bag forward for Lestrade to investigate. When he looked inside he was surprised to find there were indeed regular groceries inside…for some reason that fact made him even more concerned about his friend. Sherlock usually didn't bother correcting people needlessly, not unless it related to a case. He really must be out of sorts.

"When she gives her statement tell her about New Life Friends Shelter. It's focused on pairing female victims of domestic violence with therapy dogs," Sherlock said, settling the bag of groceries securely in his arms once more.

Greg nodded. He was vaguely familiar with the resource. "I will. It's a good program?"

"It's not the best, but she'll stay for the dogs," Sherlock replied.

Greg looked up and met Sherlock's unreadable gaze. "You did a good thing today," Greg said softly.

Sherlock nodded, turned, and left.

"I'll see you at 10?" Lestrade called after him, and, if only to keep unwanted home visits at bay a bit longer Sherlock raised his arm and called over his shoulder that he would be there, before facing front again and focusing on the street.

 _You did a good thing today._

Did he? If so it was for all the wrong reasons.

It hadn't gotten involved to solve a case, not to try to help Susan.

He had just needed a distraction…

…and John would have approved...

Not with his methods, or his approach, but with the idea that he had helped someone, even if he hadn't meant to.

Sherlock sighed and felt a deep ache settle into his chest.

 _John_.

John was gone and there was no way to fix it.

 _I can't make you fight for your relationship, Sherlock, even if you are an idiot for not fighting…_

Like most people, excepting perhaps John on a good day, Mrs. Hudson did not understand how Sherlock thought. _Of course_ he wanted John back, but there were too many reasons why it was a bad idea even to try.

Sherlock had gone through great lengths never to fall in love. He didn't need the complication, didn't want to be that vulnerable, and it didn't matter. He'd fallen in love with John Watson anyway. Loving didn't change a person though. He was still the world's only consulting detective, still played the violin at all hours, he would never stop running experiments, and would probably run cases until they were the death of him.

John loved him for who he was, but who Sherlock was had hurt John, more than once, and Sherlock knew he would probably continue to hurt John. First the fall, and that had nearly broken both of them. Now…their separation, a separation Sherlock had enforced upon someone who loved him, and only wanted to be his friend…

It wouldn't be fair to _John_ for Sherlock to even attempt reconciliation. Sherlock had hurt him, badly, and far too often.

Susan's injuries both healed and healing flashed through his mind palace, and Sherlock wondered if, on a moral level, he was all that different from Dan, the man who had beaten his lover for so long. Sherlock had never struck John physically, but emotional and mental pain lasted longer, and festered more easily.

John had a chance now to find someone who wouldn't do that to him.

Sherlock had not been lying to himself when he'd acknowledged that he loved John. He loved him with a desperation and intensity that frightened him. For the first time ever his work was _not_ the most important thing in his life, and the best and only thing he could do for John now, was to stay far away from him.


	8. Where the Heart is

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to Brown Eyed Girl-62, browni'dbrunette, and sweetmarly for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

 **Trigger warning: Graphic medical practices discussed.**

* * *

Chapter 7: Where the Heart is

John pressed his stethoscope into the pale back of the woman on the gurney in front of him. "Deep breath," he instructed. She complied, coughing slightly on the out breath. John shifted his stethoscope to her other lung. "Again." Again the woman, whose name was Lucy Aster, took a deep breath. There was some slight wheezing, but her breath sounds were much improved from when she had first arrived. John checked the lower part of both her lungs and was satisfied that the breathing treatment had worked.

"Alright, Mrs. Aster," John said, adjusting his stethoscope to hang comfortably on his neck once more. "It looks like you're on the mend. I am going to add some nebulizer medications to your daily routine for the next two weeks, at least."

Mrs. Aster looked up at him with a frown as John stepped back into her field of vision. "Are you sure we have to do that?"

Mrs. Aster appeared to be a nervous patient who wanted to be on as few medications as possible. John couldn't blame her. A quick glance at her medical chart showed a history of acute lymphocytic leukemia in her childhood. She was in full remission now, and had been for many years, but the rapid onset had resulted in a healthy child suddenly being on a list of medications longer than her arm. While she had recovered from her cancer, Lucy had also had to contend with lifelong asthma. She hadn't done anything to exacerbate her condition. She didn't smoke, religiously took her medication, exercised, and ate right. She'd simply drawn the short straw in genetics.

"Yes, I think it will help bring things back under control. I don't think it will need to be a permanent change however. Once your body recovers from the pneumonia, then I think things will be back to normal."

Lucy nodded and John turned to the computer by the gurney. "What pharmacy do you normally use?"

She told him, and he made quick work of sending her prescription out to it electronically. John was a fast typist, one had to be as a doctor because of all the charting that was required, so he managed to finish his notations in a few short minutes.

It felt so good to be back to work, real work, as a doctor. He'd only just started at Charing Cross Hospital, but he already liked it very much. Targeting an accident and emergency hospital had been a good idea. It helped him use the skills he had, in a way that fed his own obvious need for an adrenaline rush.

John shifted in his seat and winced as his shoulder tensed. As much as he loved his new employment, long hours on hospital stools or bent over computers for documentation was not doing his shoulder any favors. Without, well, without Sherlock to run around with he was getting less exercise, which caused his muscles to stiffen, and increased the risk for cramps.

"Are you alright?" Mrs. Aster asked, frowning with concern.

John nodded. "Just fine, Mrs. Aster."

He hated it when patients could see that he was in pain. He hated when anyone could see him in pain, really. He wasn't injured, just dealing with the fall out of an old wound, long healed, and he didn't like other people making a fuss. He wasn't as uncooperative a patient as Sherlock could be, but doctors didn't make good patients in general; it wasn't the role they were comfortable with.

John stood and pulled back the curtains around the exam area. Accident and emergency was always noisy, but, now that Mrs. Aster could breathe, she didn't seemed phased by the bustle of activity. "I recommend that you follow up with your primary care doctor within the week, to let him know what happened, and to continue to monitor your asthma symptoms."

Mrs. Aster nodded solemnly as she also stood. "I'll call him as soon as I'm home."

She paused beside John and stretched her hand out to him. "Thank you for your help, doctor. It's always so frightening when I get a strong attack.

John shook her hand, wrapping it in both of his. "You're welcome, Mrs. Aster. I'm happy to help." And he was. He liked fixing things. Sherlock had made more than a few comments about how this was John's coping mechanism for his unsteady childhood, whereas Harry had followed their parents example.

John could follow the logic, but he didn't appreciate it. It made him wonder if Sherlock had become so attractive to him because of his innate desire to 'fix' things. John didn't think that was the case, Sherlock's eccentricities had grown on him, more or less. Then again, he never would have thought Sherlock would dismiss him so summarily and completely. That act alone made John question everything he thought he knew about Sherlock. Had John built him up in his head? Had John been that lonely after all his interrupted dates? John hadn't really thought Sherlock would be that cruel, not to him. It made John wonder if he had ever really known his enigmatic flatmate.

Pushing the hurt aside, as had become second nature, John watched Mrs. Aster leave, and then turned towards the nurses station to finish up his notes.

Before he could get there he was intercepted by Tim Hawthorne, one of the residents on rotation. His face was drawn and pale, and John came immediately to attention. "What's wrong?"

"Can we talk?" Tim asked, tilting his head down the hall. There was a break room at the end of the hall that looked out over a small garden courtyard area.

John released a breath and nodded. They turned together and started walking toward the break room.

Tim had almost finished med school and was one of the newer residents. He was also struggling with this rotation in accident and emergency. He wanted to practice family medicine, and his time here had only cemented that, but he had four more weeks to go before his rotation at Charing Cross would be complete. John wanted him to succeed; he had all the makings of a good doctor. Not all doctors were suited for accident and emergency, and there was nothing wrong with that, despite the doubts some instructors and supervisors might try to instill in their students or supervisees.

John walked over to two chairs in the corner, separated only by a small table, and Tim followed him. They sat and John placed his folded hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. "What happened?"

Tim's face crumpled slightly as though he was about to cry. He took a deep breath and whispered. "We lost someone…just now."

John reached forward and squeezed one of Tim's hands for a moment. "I'm sorry."

Tim nodded and focused on his breathing for a few moments before speaking again, this time slightly louder. "He never had a chance. There was such massive internal bleeding… He was vomiting blood everywhere and spasming…" Tim swallowed hard and stared pointedly out the window into the garden. He was silent for a few long moments before he whispered, "They're going to kick me out…"

"Has your supervisor told you this directly?" John asked, keeping his voice calm and steady.

Tim shook his head slowly.

"Then you don't know that for sure," John countered.

Tim shrugged and whispered, "I'm not sure I can keep doing this…"

John frowned. "Doing what? Being a doctor?"

"Watching people die…" Tim breathed.

John waited a bit before he replied, keeping his voice calm and even, something he was always mindful of doing when working with anxious patients or, in this case, anxious residents. "Accident and emergency can be a very intense work environment, and working with trauma only compounds the pressure. You've said yourself that you want to finish residency, get your license, and go into family practice. The reason you complete these rotations is to get experience in different types of medicine. Accident and emergency is not a good fit for you, I agree, but that isn't a failing as a doctor. I've only known you a few weeks and I think you picked well when you decided to pursue family medicine. Knowing your limits is as important as knowing your strengths. Watching patients die should never be something you get used to, or feel detached from. That's a serious sign of compassion fatigue, and being overworked in general. Both should be avoided at all costs. When you're stretched thin your patients suffer. You would rarely, if ever, see patients so badly injured in family medicine."

Tim shook his head. "I don't know…"

"Take some time and think about it, then." John suggested. "Really consider your options, and think about what you want. Watching death is never easy, not even for seasoned accident and emergency doctors. You have to learn to take solace in the fact that you did everything you could, and the fact that you cannot control everything. Some injuries are not survivable, and the only thing we can offer patients is to be calm and present with them for as long as they are with us. That doesn't mean we can't or we shouldn't process things afterwards, that is taking care of yourself, and it's part of the job."

Tim looked up thoughtfully for a moment, and then slowly nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"You're welcome," John replied, standing and walking around the table. He paused at Tim's shoulder and said, "I do hope you continue, I think you have the makings of an excellent pediatrician, should you want to be one."

Tim's brows furrowed, and he looked thoughtful. Perhaps he had never considered that before, but whether he chose family medicine, or pediatrics, John felt confident Tim could be a skilled physician. It was just up to him to see it through.

* * *

John walked up the steps to Mary's flat, grateful to be home. It didn't really feel like home yet, but it felt safe, and safe was what John needed right now.

As he rounded the corner and started down the hall John corrected himself: it was _their_ flat now, not just Mary's. John had insisted that he sign a rental agreement since Mary actually _owned_ the flat and there was no paperwork from a landlord. Mary had rolled her eyes at him, but she'd written up the necessary paperwork and accepted his first check. John had closely tracked his accounts for the first few days to insure that she'd also actually deposited the check in her own account, and it appeared that she had.

Once the money had been pulled from his accounts John had felt a bit guilty for following up on things so closely. Either he trusted Mary or he didn't, and if he didn't he had no business living with her. John suspected part of his reticence was simply the fact that Mary was not Sherlock and after living so long with one person anything different, no matter how welcoming, felt…wrong. That knowledge galled him, but only time would change things.

John paused at the door, almost knocking before remembering, yet again, the keys that Mary had made for him. They'd been on his keychain since before the rental agreement was signed, and he still wasn't used to them.

John opened the door and slipped inside the flat, smiling when he smelled dinner cooking. That would never have happened at 221 B unless Mrs. Hudson had brought them something.

"Hello Mary!" John called out as he hung up his coat on the rack by the door.

"Welcome home, John!" Mary called back from the kitchen.

John paused to set his bag down in his room, and then circled back around to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway and smiling at Mary. She was bent over a saucepan reducing a mushroom sauce. She glanced up at him and smiled, her hand never stilling as she stirred the sauce.

"How was your day?" Mary asked.

John nodded. "It was good. I think I'm up to speed on the electronic medical record and basic policies and procedures. The rest is just being a doctor." John paused for a moment, then added. "One of the residents had a rough day."

Mary frowned and glanced up. "Accident and emergency is a difficult rotation. It doesn't suit with everyone."

John nodded again. "Yes, but I _do_ think he would make a good doctor."

Mary's smile winded a little. "If course you do. You wouldn't be trying to help him or worrying about him like this if you didn't; you'd steer him in another direction altogether." Mary paused to lift the spoon to her lips and taste the sauce before she resumed stirring. "You like to fix things."

John sighed softly, reminded all over again of Sherlock and his own thoughts earlier today. "I suppose I do."

"Can you set the table?" Mary asked, eyes still fixated on the sauce in front of her.

John blinked out of his temporary reverie. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The table? Can you set the table?" Mary clarified. "This will be done soon, but if I walk away from it, it will burn."

"Right, sure," John agreed, walking past her to the cabinets which held the dishes, the silverware, and glasses. Once he had two of everything he needed, he headed out of the kitchen and towards the table by the fireplace. He'd learned early on that the small table in the kitchen proper was mostly for breakfast, and lunch on the weekends. Mary was organized but not to the point of obsession, and John was grateful beyond measure that he'd not once had to cope with a body part in her kitchen. Of course, only Sherlock Holmes would ever do that, but still, John had come to expect Sherlock's eccentricities.

John was just setting down the last of the cutlery when a small grunt of pain came from the kitchen. He turned and poked his head in. Mary was still by the stove with her sauce, but now she was using her other hand, alternately shaking and sucking on her right one. "Everything alright?"

Mary nodded. "Fine, just a bit sauce that got away from me."

John's eyes went back to her hand. "You should run that under cold water," he observed, edging in beside her, forcing her to take a step away from the stove as he grabbed the spoon from her and continued her stirring for her.

John heard Mary's footsteps towards the sink, then heard the sound of water running. When Mary spoke again she spoke over her shoulder, projecting her voice so as to be heard over the sounds of cooking and rushing water.

"You handled that quite smoothly, Dr. Watson. Are you used to difficult patients?"

John smiled wryly. "The worst. Still, I shouldn't have stepped in your way like that, sorry."

Mary shrugged. "It's fine. I'm a bad patient and I know it, but most medical staff are."

John hummed acknowledgement while he stirred the sauce. "Is there anything else I should be looking after besides this sauce?"

"No, the Brussel sprouts are in oven and the pasta finished before you arrived. It's just the sauce."

John nodded and continued stirring. About three minutes later, Mary was beside him again, taking the spoon out of his hands.

"You really ought to run cold water over your hand for longer," John protested, even as he relinquished the spoon to Mary. Years with Sherlock had taught him more about when to choose his battles than anything else ever could.

Mary shrugged. "It was a small burn, I'll take my chances. Can you grab the serving dishes?"

"You don't need to go through all this trouble every night," John protested, bending down to retrieve said serving dishes regardless. Mary had cooked dinner for them both every night since John had moved in, and she made brunch on Saturdays. John was grateful for the meals, and he'd made sure grocery funds were included in his rent, but he didn't want her to feel obligated to continue. He's lived on takeout and Mrs. Hudson's meals for... too many years. He had to improve his own cooking skills sometime.

"I like cooking for us," Mary insisted. She set the sauce aside on an unheated burner then bent to open the stove. When the Brussel sprouts were also set aside she turned and winked at him. "Anything to get out of doing the dishes afterwards."

John smiled, and he wondered if Mary had felt lonely. She'd been on her own for some time, although he hadn't asked exactly how long it had been since Sean had died. He didn't want to be intrusive, and the exact time also wasn't very important. When you lost someone you loved it stayed with you, regardless of the years.

In the grand scheme of things it also didn't really matter if she had been partially or entirely motivated to take him on as a flatmate because of any loneliness she might have felt. She was a good flatmate and this situation was exactly what John needed right now. If he met similar needs in her life, so much the better.

John helped Mary carry the serving dishes out to the table by the fireplace and they began to eat.

"How was your day, Mary?" John asked after finishing his first few mouthfuls.

"It was good," Mary replied, sipping at the red wine she'd selected for the evening. "Business has been picking up. Sarah hasn't replaced your position yet, so things are just busy enough to make the day go by quickly without being chaotic." Mary studied John a moment then, as if reading the question in his eyes she added, "You're still the main office gossip, I think, but most people are smart enough not to discuss anything in front of me."

John smiled and shook his head, pleased and grateful for her protective streak. He was used to protecting others, not being protected.

"It's not about Sherlock anymore, from what I have overheard."

"No?" John asked spearing a brussel sprout with his fork. It felt like his life was still consumed with Sherlock, even though it would soon be a month since they'd even seen each other. It was a good and difficult thing all at once.

"No, now they're suspecting that we've started a relationship," Mary clarified, smirking at him, before taking another bite.

"Sherlock isn't-" John started, and then corrected himself, "wasn't my boyfriend."

"And I'm not your girlfriend, but people will always think what they want to think," Mary replied.

John sighed and sipped his wine. He had spent so much time in the last few weeks simultaneously consumed with thoughts of Sherlock, and wanting to be able to forget he'd ever existed. He avoided the gossip as much as he could. He also hadn't called Lestrade or anyone whom he'd met in conjunction with Sherlock because his...exile had been too recent. John badly needed some distance, but there was only so much distance he could have in London, or in Europe in general. Sherlock did have an international reputation after all.

He glanced over at Mary as they ate and fell into a companionable silence. The lights of the apartment were still dimmed in light of Mary's frequent migraines, but it was lighting she looked good in. He'd been so quick to reject the ever-present notion that he'd dated Sherlock that he hadn't really considered the new rumors which Mary had just revealed.

It had been a long time since anyone had even insinuated that he was dating someone who wasn't Sherlock, and equally as long since he'd considered dating anyone else. He'd learned a lot about Mary in the past few weeks, and he was certain he'd only scratched the surface. She was beautiful, intelligent, loyal, and kind, all qualities he admired.

Already they had fallen into a steady routine, which helped balance the chaos that could be his work day. He'd known a bit more about her than he'd known about Sherlock when he'd agreed to be his flatmate, but not much. Even so, it had looked like and turned out to be a wonderful opportunity. He liked the flat and he liked Mary. He liked spending time with her.

"You're staring, Dr. Watson," Mary observed with a wry smile.

John blinked and realized that he had been. "I'm sorry I didn't realize," John began, slightly embarrassed.

Mary waved off his apology. "Don't feel bad," she insisted. "It's been a long time since I've been admired by a handsome gentleman."

John returned her coy smile. "Do you flirt with all your flatmates?"

Mary's smile softened, becoming markedly more poignant. "No, I haven't flirted in a long time."

John's embarrassment returned with a side of guilt. Sleeping with Marcus had been one thing, but he knew damned well he was not in a good headspace for a relationship right now. Even if he was, that wasn't what Mary had offered him. She had been very clear that she was in love with her husband.

John felt Mary's hand cover one of his own and brought his gaze up to meet hers. "Sean is dead," she began softly. "Nothing and no one can change that. Maybe I will fall in love again, maybe I won't. I'm not seeking it out or running from it." Mary squeezed John's hand and sighed softly. "I think the biggest barrier is the fact that anyone who dared to fall in love with me would have to accept the fact that I'm still in love with Sean, that I will always be in love with Sean, and no other love that might enter my life can change that. It's a big ask for most people."

John nodded and squeezed Mary's hand back. He hadn't considered that someone might be reluctant to see Mary because of her ongoing love for her late husband. The thought was sad, and felt so limiting. Then again Sherlock was always going on about how people made their own cages and then complained about them…

"I'm not seeking love either," John murmured, slowly releasing Mary's hand, "and in my case I think I should be avoiding it."

Mary sipped her wine before replying. "The reason I'm not running from love, is only because I accept that there is no way Sean will ever come back to me, not in this life. If there was even the smallest chance of getting him back, nothing in the world would stop me." Mary pinned him with an intense look and finished, "Love is worth it. Love is _always_ worth it."

The assertion immediately rankled. "No," John replied adamantly, "it isn't."

Mary's reply was a long time in coming, so long in fact that John had assumed that was the end of it. But at last her almost-whisper reached him. "Yes, it is."

" _We're not a couple."_

" _Yes, you are."_

The memory flashed in his mind's eye, himself arguing with Irene Adler. She'd seen the truth before he had, but so had almost everyone else.

John looked up from his dinner, and his gaze locked with Mary's. She had a sad wistful smile playing on her lips. As much as he was vehemently opposed to even the thought of reconciliation…he didn't want to have that discussion tonight. Mary missed her husband, had said that she would welcome him back with open arms if only the possibility existed for him to come back; their situations were too similar and too different at the same time. There had been nothing flawed or broken in her marriage, and John could appreciate how her longing would color her viewpoint. For now he wanted to let the conversation drop; agree to disagree.

John lifted his glass and smiled at her. "This is good. Where did you get it?"

Mary's smile widened, and John could tell she was not at all fooled. He hadn't meant her to be. She did seem willing to accept the change of topic, however, because she lifted her glass and stared through it for a moment before answering.

"Sean's father. We inherited a king's ransom in wine when he died. He was especially fond of Pinot. I could have a bottle of wine with dinner every night for the rest of my life, and I don't think I would exhaust his supply."

"Where do you keep all that wine?" John asked, peeking into wine glass as though he was directing his question to it.

Mary shrugged. "In a place dedicated to wine storage near the Thames."

John nodded and, because he couldn't think of anything else to say, returned to his meal. They ate in relatively companionable silence before Mary retired to the sofa with the remainder of her wine, and John started work on the dishes. He still wasn't used to having such a clean kitchen or flat, or the fact that his actions actually made a dent in helping to keep things clean.

When he was finished cleaning the dishes and wiping down the counters John dried his hands and strolled back into the living room. Mary was still lounging on the sofa, her now empty wine glass set on a bookshelf beside her for the moment. She turned to smile at him. John smiled back and lifted his arm to try to rub some of the soreness out of his shoulders that had lingered from his long shift, and had then been compounded by the dishes.

Mary stood and walked towards him, frowning. "I can give you a massage, if you want," she suggested, nodding her head towards John's shoulder, where his hand still rubbed the stubborn muscle. "I'm not a massage therapist, but I probably know enough to help with the pain."

"You don't have to," John replied almost automatically, his hand falling back to his side again.

"I don't," Mary agreed, "But I'm willing to. It's up to you though."

John frowned in thought. He _was_ in pain and a massage _would_ help, but he didn't want to muddy the waters between them, especially not after tonight's conversation. Mary was his flatmate and she was becoming a good friend. He needed both in his life without any added complication right now.

He almost jumped when Mary spoke again, her voice close to his ear. "You don't need to think about it that hard, John. I wasn't offering a massage with a happy ending."

John flushed and Mary giggled, stepping back and retrieving her wine glass. "I didn't know it was so easy to make you blush," she said, walking past him towards the kitchen. She paused at the doorway and turned back to him. "I'm sorry; I really didn't mean to push your boundaries. I meant my offer purely for medical assistance. But then you were thinking about it so hard and that line popped into my head, and I couldn't resist." She shrugged. "I'm really a mostly harmless flatmate, but I probably do have the dirtiest mind in London."

John blinked, not sure how to respond.

" _I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end... Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."_

John shook himself out of his reverie as Mary walked back into the sitting room, having just cleaned her wine glass.

"Are you alright? She asked, walking up to him once more.

John nodded. "I'm fine."

Mary frowned and said, "I meant what I say about your boundaries, John. If I push them or step over them let me know and I'll stop."

John couldn't help but smile. It was a refreshing thought considering Sherlock's tendency to steamroll right through someone regardless of their boundaries. "I know, thank you. I really am fine. There's just…" he hesitated. "There've been a lot of changes in the last month, and I'm still finding my way, I guess."

Mary nodded. "I understand."

Her tone and her expression were so heartfelt that John really believed that she did.

"If you're still offering, a massage probably would help."

Mary smiled. "Excellent. Would you prefer sitting or lying down?"

"Sitting."

Mary nodded and arranged the chairs from the fireside table so that John would be sitting on a sideways facing chair, and she would be sitting behind him in a forward facing chair, and thus have easy access to his back and shoulders. "Shirt on or off?" she asked as she took her place in her chair. When John hesitated she added, "It is completely up to you, John." Her eyes flittered to his injured shoulder, and in a softer voice she added, "I've seen a wide range of scar tissue in my time." A fond smile crept over her lips and he gaze grew distant. "Sean's body was littered with scars, and I used to tease him that the pattern on his back was starting to look like wings."

"Shirt off will probably give you a better grip, and a better idea of what you're working with," John replied, bringing Mary's attention back to the present as he sat in his chair, and removed his shirt, holding it in his lap. He'd never really talked about his injury with Mary but like most who knew him, she'd read his blog. John mused that, while he had spent some time trying to get to know Mary and build their friendship, there was very little of real importance in his own life that they'd discussed outright. They'd skirted around a few issues which Mary must have known about from his blog or simply inferred from what she did know about him. Mary and her flat were a retreat for now, but John knew he would have to confront the emotions and some of the people he was avoiding eventually. Though he never intended to see Sherlock again if he could help it.

Mary scooting forward to get in a better position, her eyes darting over Johns' scars. The damage was extensive, and he was very lucky not to have lost any flexibility or dexterity, at least no loss that she knew off.

"Let me know if anything hurts or pulls in a bad way," Mary said softly, but firmly, as she lifted her hands to John's shoulders.

"I will," John promised, smiling at her over his shoulder.

Mary smiled back and poked John's cheek until he turned his head to face forwards once more. She started out gently, running her hands along his neck, shoulders, and back in long strokes, just seeing what she had to work with. Like most people John's neck and the muscles along his spine were very tense. His shoulders, especially his trapezius muscles, were more of a mess than most people due to his injury, and his good shoulder's tendency to overcompensate.

Mary threaded one of her arms under John's good shoulder, wrapping it around the front and using that leverage in tandem with pressure from the heel of her other hand along his trapezius. John moaned softly, tipping his head forward towards his chest, and Mary smiled. "Neat trick, huh?"

John grunted softly in agreement, his eyes falling shut.

After several minutes Mary shifted her hands so that she held the top of John's trapezius of his good shoulder in a firm grip. Between both her hands she covered most of the slope from neck to shoulder. Once her grip was secure Mary gently rocked her hands back and forth, pushing at the muscle from a different angle. She was pleased when John sighed and leaned back into the touch.

"Do you think your other shoulder will accommodate similar treatment?" Mary asked, keeping her voice quiet.

John thought about it for a moment, and then nodded. "Just go slow with pace and pressure, it won't be as resilient or as flexible."

Mary nodded and slowly moved her hand to John's other shoulder. The process was slower with his bad shoulder, and she asked for more feedback, but once Mary had a sense of what was comfortable she ensured both shoulders were well tended to. She finished by spending a few minutes working the muscles along John's lower back with her knuckles and the heels of her palms. When she was finished she rested her palms flat against John's back, smiling as he rolled his neck and sighed. "Better?" She asked.

John nodded and shrugged back into his shirt. "Thank you."

"Anytime," Mary replied standing and returning their chairs to their original positions at the table.

"Don't say that," John yawned, stretching as he stood. "I might take you up on it."

Mary smirked, patting his shoulder as she passed him. "I'm not in the habit of saying things I don't mean, so take me up on it whenever you want to. Although if you wake me and it's not an emergency, you will be taking your life in your hands."

John chuckled and waved to her as she reached her bedroom door. "Goodnight, Mary."

She smiled warmly and murmured, "Goodnight, John," before closing the door behind her. John turned off the fireplace and the rest of the lights before heading to bed himself.

John lay down on his bed with an exhausted, but contented, sigh, pulled the covers over himself, and waited for sleep to come.

…and waited…

…and waited…

With a frustrated sigh John rolled over and tried to get comfortable on his side. He hadn't been sleeping terribly, but it had been a long time since he'd slept really well, and he felt he'd more than earned a good night's rest. Life, however, was rarely fair, and even when it was, it was probably an accident.

John closed his eyes and surrendered to the inevitable. He didn't spend a significant amount of time each day thinking about Sherlock, but the simple fact that Sherlock was still on his mind every single day, galled him. John knew he hadn't deceived himself in his feelings for Sherlock, and that they would be slow to fade no matter how much he longed for the day when he could barely remember Sherlock's name.

…would that day ever come? Or was that too much to hope for after all those years and the significant impact Sherlock had had on his life?

John had taken many steps to move forward and redirect his life. It hurt, it _ached_ , but he had done it. John couldn't help but wonder if part of him simply refused to acknowledge the fact that Sherlock was no longer a part of his life. _Every day_ something would remind him of something Sherlock had said or done and he'd lose himself in the memory, if only for a moment.

Even if he never came close to forgetting Sherlock's name, John had faith that this would get easier…it _had_ to.


	9. Denial and Delusions

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to Brown Eyed Gril-62 and sweetmarly for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

 **Trigger warning: Some of this chapter is from the point of view of the killer, and they aren't very...sane, or nice. Just FYI.**

* * *

Chapter 8: Denial and Delusions

"You can't hide out in here forever, you know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a gesture that Molly, thankfully, could not see, as he was examining a slide of bacteria under a microscope. He'd come to Barts to evaluate the strain of bacterial infection that was the end of Mr. Wallingford. Something about the case still did not sit right with him. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he'd deduced all there was for anyone to deduce. There was the chance he could learn something in this research that would be helpful in other cases, or , even better, that he'd stumble across something that would break open the case once more.

"Jesus you are such a child."

Sherlock lifted his head to make a note on the pad of paper beside him, still ignoring the morgue assistant. He'd chosen Barts as his location because of the resources at his fingertips here. He could order certain supplies for research at 221 B, and had often done so, but for something simple like this, Barts was easier… although he may have to rethink that conclusion if Molly was going to continue to be disruptive like this…

"I will never know what possessed you to order John out of your life like that, but you will regret it, Sherlock. He _loved_ you!"

Sherlock's face was a mask of neutrality as he stared unseeing into the microscope, but his mind whirled with activity.

Regret? He already did. But, even if he had it to do all over again, Sherlock wasn't sure he'd choose any differently. His love for John wouldn't change him, hadn't changed him. John had adapted to fit very neatly into Sherlock's world for a time, but not without a cost.

Sherlock had not missed John's looks of disappointment about interrupted dates, his exhaustion on long cases, or the lengths John had gone through to save Sherlock's life, risking his own on more than one occasion.

Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated intensely on his breathing until he had better control of his emotions. Giving Molly any kind of attention now would only encourage her, and giving her any inkling of the truth would be disastrous.

Where once there had been a chorus of voices asserting or assuming that John and he were a couple, now they all seemed to be joined as one, encouraging Sherlock to make amends and bring John back.

If Sherlock loved John less he might try, but the more he considered his own feelings, in the deepest part of his mind palace, the more he recognized the depth of his affection and devotion. John _was_ more important than cases. It was a terrifying, but undisputable fact, and that fact alone stilled his hand.

John would have taken steps by now to stabilize his life, he might be pursuing happiness, and may even…

Images of the love mark on Marcus's throat, the mark that had come from John flashed across his mind's eye and he almost winced. It was painful; it _hurt_ to imagine John with someone else. They had never been a couple, but even before he'd been honest about the nature and depth of his own feelings, Sherlock knew he'd been possessive of John. It was hard not to be when John had brought so many good things into his life.

Sherlock had fought John, about the eating, the sleeping, and especially about anything sentimental, but at the same time he'd been grateful for it. Sentiment had never been easy for Sherlock, especially now. John had seen that, and acknowledged the sentiments Sherlock did have, even if he would never admit them.

There were very, very few people Sherlock allowed himself to get close to, and even then only to a point. It wasn't about avoiding liabilities on a professional level, but on a personal one. Moriarty had known who Sherlock had really cared about, and had threatened them all. It would be an easy thing for any advisory to figure out. No, it was Sherlock's own lack of comfort being vulnerable, of allowing someone to affect him past a certain point. John, in his own unassuming way, had slipped right into Sherlock's heart anyway,

Sherlock had heard some saying once, that one could not control who one fell in love with, only what one did about that love. He barely remembered it; he'd paid so little attention. Now he wondered if there wasn't some truth in it; if everyone had less control than they realized. He couldn't _not_ deduce, it was who he was. Doing anything else would have been a fruitless exercise… He _was_ a consulting detective, he _was_ in love with John Watson, and as painful as it may be, he was _not_ going to pursue John. Objectively, John's best chance of happiness was away from Sherlock.

This didn't stop Sherlock's mind from wandering, especially when Molly, or Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or even Mycroft were bombarding him with unwitting reminders. One of the other reasons he'd selected Barts as his location of research today was the hope he could escape the constant prodding's of Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Lestrade. Molly had, until Sherlock's complete dismissal of John, taken to ignoring him. Now she was becoming more aggressive. She had cut him out of frustration on the same day he'd met Marcus…

She was yelling at him now, but he hadn't been listening. She was venting her own anger and resentments about unrequited affection out onto him. He'd never asked her to fancy him, and as such had been very insensitive to her feelings. That was no great surprise, he was insensitive to a great many people's feelings. It was brilliantly effective during a case and outside of cases it kept the tedium to a minimum.

Sherlock had received countless lectures about the way he treated people, including Molly. He'd ignored them all. He thought he'd deleted them all and yet…

" _There are_ _ **lives**_ _at stake, Sherlock. Actual,_ _ **human**_ _lives! J-just so I know, do you care about that at all?!"_

" _Will caring about them save them?"_

 _John's shoulders fell slightly but his face was resolute in his moral certainty as he shook his head. "Nope."_

Sherlock blinked away the memory, not wanting to recall the argument. Now that John was gone Sherlock found himself more distracted than ever. Part of him rebelled at the thought that John was never coming back, but wanting couldn't, and in this case, shouldn't change things. He was going to keep his distance. It was, perhaps, the one unselfish thing he'd ever done.

Because of his own internal distraction, and the incessant nagging of others, Sherlock had been avoiding cases. He'd always been persnickety about the way he selected and worked cases, but his recent avoidance was not part of the game. He would have to return to cases eventually, and the sooner the better. With time, everyone's insistence on John's return would evaporate. If he was very, very lucky, perhaps he would find a way to silence his own thoughts on the matter.

Slowly Sherlock stood, and turned to face Molly. She had quieted for the moment, but her breathing was elevated and she was glaring daggers at him. In other circumstances he might have attempted to lay a hand on her shoulder, or take one of her hands in his, but today that was not going to illicit the desired emotional response.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, Molly," he said quietly. She stiffened, almost gasping, and her eyes widened in shock. "Love is not really my area. Although I do not believe you love me. You are instead enamored with the idea of love, and of me. You don't need that kind of connection to be happy or satisfied, and if you can be happy as you are, you will be in a better position to form a healthy, lasting partnership."

Sherlock paused for a moment and although Molly worked her jaw slightly no words came out, only a small strangled sound.

"I apologize also for disturbing your workspace. I will clean the slides and leave." Sherlock turned back around and immediately made good on his promise. He cleaned the slides properly, and stored them. He even straightened the work area. When he pulled on his coat in preparation for leaving, five minutes later, Molly still had not spoken or moved. Sherlock nodded once to her as he straightened his collar. "Goodnight Molly."

Sherlock tugged open the door and stepped outside the morgue, making his way to the street outside, equally as perplexed by his own actions as the woman he had just left. He didn't waste his time on niceties, he never had. All the lecturing in the world hadn't altered his behavior before…

Sherlock knew behaving well wouldn't bring John back. John would never know what had just happened, and should never know, no matter how 'good' Sherlock might ever behave. He had thoroughly examined why reconciliation wouldn't be beneficial for John, and still he found his behavior altered… It _was_ unfortunate that Molly had taken a liking to him, and he _had_ been unkind, but apologizing _wouldn't_ change the past and would detract from any current or potential cases.

Only cases, as much as he may want to deny it, weren't his only objective anymore, and knowing John Watson had brought out parts of himself he'd completely written off as useless…

Sherlock opened the door to 221 and bounded up the steps. He was nearly inside his flat when Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs after him.

"Yoohoo! Sherlock! Is that you?"

Sherlock cringed and bit back a sarcastic comment about being a burglar. He glanced over his shoulder and called back, "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'm on a case."

"Oh." That 'oh' made him want to cringe all over again; it was filled with pity, sympathy, concern, and every other emotion that Sherlock currently found suffocating. He didn't wait for any further comment; he strode forward into 221 B and shut the door behind him. The comments would stop eventually. It was human nature, a subject he prided himself on being an expert of.

Sherlock scanned the flat, his gaze settling on his laptop, peeking out from under a pile of documents and other papers. Nodding to himself, Sherlock strode toward the desk, brushed the papers away with a sweep of his arm, and started hacking.

His research at. Barts, as interrupted as it had been, hadn't revealed anything he didn't already know. If there was anything in the case of Mr. Wallingford's death, a lead might be found by examining Charing Cross Hospital directly. Of course a trip in person wouldn't be nearly as revealing as what he could find electronically. The scene of the crime, if there had been one, was hopelessly contaminated. Here, from behind his own computer, he could hack medical records, security cameras, personnel files, death records, autopsies, and more.

The security for Charing Cross'selectronic hub was laughable; he was inside in less than a minute. Sherlock started with a detailed review of Mr. Wallingford's death and autopsy records…no new information there. Next, Sherlock examined the old security camera feeds around the time of Mr. Wallingford's surgery, and death. There was a lot of data to compile but nothing that seemed to give solid credence to the idea of murder or malpractice.

When specifics surrounding Mr. Wallingford failed, Sherlock broadened his queries. He brought up death records for the last several months and compared them. There was a slight upward trend in hospital deaths, but nothing drastic, nothing truly out of the ordinary. There was no pattern in time, gender, age, or cause of death.

Frustrated, Sherlock moved over to examining staff files. He should have started here in the first place. There was always a chance Mr. Wallingford's murder had been more general, rather than personal.

Sherlock waivered for a moment when he was confronted with the sheer amount of data the personnel files contained. He had known what he was getting into, that relevant data would have to be, for the most part, hand counted, as the indicators of a potential murderers were not charted or documented so thoroughly as deaths and the causes thereof. There had been nothing solid in this case to indicate foul play, and his time was too valuable to waste.

Still… what did he have to lose? He had no promising experiments at the moment, and barring late night self-referrals he had not accepted new cases for a worrying amount of time… He could practice his skills on the data before him until the morning, then return one of Lestrade's numerous texts or phone calls asking for assistance. The mounting concern evident in the texts and messages he received from both Mycroft and Lestrade rankled. The fastest way to quiet them both, would be to return to his own version of 'normal.'

Lestrade had sent him information on the most basic of cases recently, the pity he felt for Sherlock readily apparent. It was a good thing for both of them that he actually had a case above a six in his queue. No matter how hard up he was, Sherlock would never, ever work cases even the Yard could solve.

Resolved on his course of action, Sherlock began reviewing Charing Cross'semployees. His leads had been so few that he wanted to be as thorough as possible. Any senior employee was suspect as they would have had more time to develop a grudge or vendetta against Charing Cross. Likewise the newer employees required review because, at least in the case of Mr. Wallingford, the possible nefarious actions were scarcely three months old. Senior employee or recent hire, Sherlock examined every file, practicing his profiling skills.

Hours passed in a state vaguely better than general tedium, that is to say Mrs. Hudson's walls were safe for the moment, but there were no new leads. Sherlock clicked through the electronic database of present employees, scanning names, interview questions and responses, psychological evaluations (if they were present), and other personal information.

Sherlock glanced at the time, grateful it was close to 7am. This wasn't the best of distractions, but it would do for another two hours until Lestrade would call, as he had been in the unfortunate habit of doing every morning for the last week. Sherlock clicked to the next page of files and felt his heart stutter in his chest as his eyes locked on a name halfway down said page.

 _Watson, John H. Physician._

Sherlock opened the file reflexively, eagerly, and before he could think better of it. His chest tightened when John's picture loaded on the screen, along with the rest of his employee file. For several long minutes Sherlock could do nothing but stare at the picture and deduce.

John was tired, sleeping less than five hours a night when he functioned best at the textbook eight. He _was_ happy about the job. Excitement and determination both played on John's face, and Sherlock instantly understood him. Just as he had suspected, John had sought to stabilize his life, and part of that had included securing more regular employment. It made sense. His work at the surgery had trickled down to a very limited part time schedule over the past year.

Guilt stabbed at Sherlock's conscience. _He_ was the cause of the sleepless nights. _He_ was a significant part of the reason that, while genuine, John's smile barely touched his eyes. John was happy, was taking steps, but part of his actions were simply going through the motions.

Sherlock fingers shook and he ached to make things right, but he reminded himself he already _was_ doing everything in his power. John was taking his steps, and Sherlock needed to stay back and let it happen.

Sherlock's eyes darted down the page in front of him, noting John's new address. Safe older building not far from Charing Cross. That was promising. A short commute generally lead to greater overall satisfaction with one's employment and one's personal life. Sherlock riffled through his mind palace for everything he had on John's building. Those were owned flats, not rented. John had decent savings, but not enough to buy. Was he living with a new flatmate? Most likely.

Sherlock's fingers were poised over the keys of his laptop, ready to research the building John was living in, find the owner's name, and run an extensive background check… but he stopped himself. Not because it might be considered rude or invasive, those considerations rarely even registered with Sherlock. No, he stopped himself because he trusted John and he knew himself.

John had served in a war zone, he had been shot. He knew how to take care of himself, how to survive. Sherlock, on the other hand, was tenacious. He followed every clue where it led regardless of the consequences. If he began investigating John's flatmate he wouldn't leave it alone. He would push and push until he was all but stalking them, looking for a flaw, a failing, and John would figure it out eventually.

Again it wasn't John's possible anger or lectures that gave Sherlock pause, it was the pain such a meeting might cause. Leaving 221 B had been more than difficult for John. Sherlock knew that John loved him, that John _still_ loved him, and because he loved John back, he couldn't bring himself to hurt John any further, not if he could help it.

Instead, Sherlock found himself shifting his focus. He reviewed the scheduled shifts for the day, his heart stuttering when he found Johns' name on the roster. This was bad. He was afflicted by every chemical reaction, inconvenience, and judgment impairment he'd ever railed against when deigning to discuss love…and he didn't care. As much as the current situation pained him and as much as it distracted from his work, Sherlock knew he wouldn't change his feelings even if he could. _That_ was dangerous, because it made him start to wonder how things might have been different, if _only_ …

Desperate for a distraction from that line of thinking, Sherlock put his fingers to work and hacked Charing Cross's security cameras. This wasn't really a solution, but it was the least damaging alternative. A video feed opened on his screen and he shifted through several different cameras and angles, searching for the one doctor he _needed_ to see.

Sherlock's lips quirked in an almost smile when John's image finally filled the screen. His heart calmed, and his breathing evened out. His fingers twitched with the repressed urge to touch the screen.

He didn't sigh like some love besotted teenager…but idling his time like this was almost as bad. Even so, he couldn't make himself turn away. Mycroft would know he'd hacked Charing Cross's security cameras and would try, and fail, to restrict Sherlock's access to said cameras. Mycroft would then phone him, and would even come to visit after a time, but those were all consequences for another day.

Sherlock watched John greet his colleagues, he watched him tend to his patients, and he watched him completing his documentation. He read John's lips as he spoke, because the video offered no sound, and he watched John's hands quickly and deftly assess and sooth those in his care. It should have been tedious, but it wasn't. Sherlock felt his pulse quicken and his head spin as the neurochemicals associated with love pulsed into his blood stream.

Sherlock knew John well, and, after several minutes, began to use that knowledge in conjunction with his lip reading skills to try to beat John to the correct diagnosis for his patients. It was a poor replica of a conversation, but it was _something_. Time bled away like sand through an hourglass.

When Lestrade's daily call finally did come, Sherlock very nearly missed it.

* * *

He strolled through the corridors of the familiar hospital with a smile on his face. It was hard to think of how much had changed since he was a boy. As a child he would run rampant through the halls pestering the staff with endless questions, examining all the equipment he could get his hands on, and dreaming of the day when he would take his father's place.

For all the great expectations placed upon him, he almost hadn't achieved his birthright. It wasn't from a lack of commitment; no he'd earned his medical degree as soon as they would let him. He'd been full of such unrealistic hopes and dreams of making a difference, while also growing his father's business. It was those very idealistic plans that had motivated him through most of his younger years that sickened him now.

Up until his young adulthood he had railed against the cold distance in professional politics. The thought of showing preference to someone because they were rich or powerful but not because they were useful or valued as a person had seemed like the end of all common decency. He'd been determined to break the barriers and show everyone that he could be genuinely engaging with patients and investors alike, while also being true to himself. He'd offered up his heart freely and it had been ripped from him in a crucible that left him forever changed.

Where his previous modesty had made confident self-presentation a trial, now it was easy. He had a smile for every person that crossed his path, a genuine one that reached his eyes. He worked hard to gain the trust and respect of everyone around him. Before he had rebelled against the seemingly heartless side of business, but now he utilized his social skills and reputation to do what had to be done and, more than once he'd had others _thank_ him for a cutthroat business maneuver simply because of the way he had presented it to them, and how he had acted.

He touched other people more easily now; won their hearts and confidence. While he didn't shy away from the necessities of his business, which before had seemed so revolting, he completed his tasks with an apparent warmth and empathy that smoothed the way and left nothing but good feelings in his wake. He was, in some respects, almost everything he had ever hoped to be: a doctor, a business man, someone who appeared to balance the demands of his job and push forward for the betterment of _everyone_ involved, and caring had made all the difference in the world.

When he was younger he _had_ the majority of the skills he now applied so ruthlessly, but the fact that he had _cared_ about making a difference, getting things right, and making other people happy had destroyed all his efforts. He'd been too hesitant or nervous to make a strong impression and was left floundering, barely on the edge of other people's consciousness. Now, he didn't care. Not about people, not about his patients, not about any part of the world at large. He was freed from the fear of getting it wrong and now, when he did seem to err, whether by accident or design, it made him seem more approachable, relatable, and added to his overall charm. In the place of all the lofty goals of his youth, a single and consuming goal had taken their place: _revenge_.

He would have revenge if it was the very last thing he ever did.

It didn't matter what happened to him, if he was killed at the end of everything it would almost be a blessing. Before he died, though, he would end every single person that had ever contributed to his suffering. He wasn't after petty rivalries, those had all been burned away by his greater focus. A very specific group of people had contributed significantly to his suffering, and he was in the process of returning the favor. Several people were already dead thanks to his careful planning.

His smile widened at the thought and he nodded at a passing orderly who waved back at him with an answering smile. It had taken him a very long time to feel joy because of other people's pain, but now it was the only joy left to him. The foolish, reckless boy he had been was irreparably broken by the complete destruction of everything he had ever cared about. He had railed against it, had fought every step of the way to keep some scrap of hope, connection, love, but they had all been taken from him, and those that had at one time crushed him with no more thought than one would take in crushing an insect had already begun to feel the effects of their actions.

He was smarter than he'd ever been given credit for, and he had been careful. He'd moved slowly, built himself up and established a spotless reputation. He'd made a point of moving slowly and varying his methods. It was absolutely vital that no one saw him coming, that his actions held no pattern and would not be detected. He would _not_ be denied. Not now. Not after waiting for so long.

His last victim had been so much fun. He'd toyed with him for _months_. A little poison here, a different poison there; nothing too strong, just enough to make him miserable. Then he'd introduced a powerful infection. The victim had been getting so many shots and infusions it was easy to slip in the contaminated medication. He hadn't given the injections himself, but it had been all too easy to contaminate the needles after they had been prepped. Other people had likely been slightly inconvenienced because it had been necessary to contaminate multiple needles. The doses had been relatively small, but frequent enough to destroy his victims already weakened immune system. When death had finally come, it had left his victims body as wasted as his morals.

He had attended the funeral, naturally. It was necessary to appear to 'show support' for such an important and influential patient. He was very good at controlling his expressions, and had made all the appropriate gestures of sadness and condolences, while secretly preening over his success.

Enough time had passed that he could now move again. He had another victim slotted for death, and while her death would be quick, it would also be agonizing and personal. This would be one of the few deaths which he would administer personally. He'd been exacting about selecting this specific time, a time he was known for being on rounds throughout the hospital, so it wouldn't look suspicious that he was walking the halls. He had selected a time when staff were not scheduled or expected in the patient's room, between nursing assessments, and a time when there were mostly new residents on staff. They still had the regulation amount of practiced physicians, but the residents would be the first ones on scene and anything amiss would be easily overlooked or the blame placed elsewhere.

He turned the corner into a corridor that was, as expected, unoccupied. He slipped quickly into his victims room, an easy smile on his face. His victim was sleeping, to be expected given the sedatives the victim was on for pain management. The dose was within the guideline, but he had used his administrative privileges to change the amount ordered, and how often, without leaving a trace.

He slipped the needle from his pocket, uncapped it and drew in a sizable amount of air. Then he gathered the patient's intravenous line in one hand and pressed the needle into the medication port. His eyes narrowed in wicked satisfaction as he quickly depressed the plunger and just as quickly plucked out the needle and turned away. The pocket of air had a reasonable distance to travel before it made it through the tubing and into his patient's blood stream, not long, but just long enough for him to make his exit. He capped the needle and slipped it back into his pocket with one hand as he pushed open the door with the other. The hallway was still empty, as planned. His revenge was too important to leave anything to chance. He heard the wailing of the code alarm attached to the patient's monitors just as he slipped inside the stairwell, and his smile widened.


	10. Should Be

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to Brown Eyed Girl-62, sweetmarly, and browni/brunette for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

 **Trigger warning: CPR and patient death described.**

* * *

Chapter 9: Should Be

The compressions distorted the rib cage to an unsettling angle. John would have called it unnatural, except the rib cage was naturally flexible. It wasn't built for the beating that CPR normally delivered, but a broken rib was almost always better than death.

He counted the compressions in his head, pausing at the appropriate times for the resident beside him to give the patient the recommended two breaths through the CPR mouthpiece and bag. As a younger doctor he had half mumbled the CPR count during training drills, but with experience he learned he was only wasting necessary breath. The force and focus needed to manually attempt to force a patient's heart back into rhythm was a workout and, if he was fortune enough to have assistance, his partner should be counting compressions as well.

John remembered feeling sick the first time he had witnessed CPR on a patient. Everything about the situation, the sharp stoic orders issued by the attending, the cracking of ribs, and the rapid compression of the rib cage, spoke of the seriousness of the moment; a life hung in the balance. That patient had not made it, and John remembered empathizing with the doctor who had to make the call; there was no harder call to make.

John pulled back when a nurse called, "Clear!" and lowered the shock paddles into place. His patient's body bowed with the intensity of the shock. Everyone in the room held their breath for a moment…but no steady heartbeat materialized. John resumed compressions and ordered more epinephrine and other medications. The patient, Jane Morris, had been recovering from a hip replacement surgery. She was seventy three, but in good health. It was an extensive surgery however, and there was always the risk of complications.

When John paused to allow the patient to receive two breaths he glanced and the clock and frowned. They were going on fifteen minutes… He had called time of death many times since his early days, but it was never easy… One more shock.

John pulled clear when the nurse called out and anxiously watched the heart monitors…nothing. "I'm calling time of death," John announced clearly, then glanced at the clock once more, "10:38am."

There was a collective sigh and one resident muttered a quiet but emphatic, "Damn!" which John whole heartedly concurred with. He squeezed Jane's hand once, and then reached down to lift the sheet over her head. He was pleased to see there was relatively little cleanup to attend to. The residents and staff in attendance had quickly ferreted needles into waiting sharps containers and the paper and plastic of wrapping into the bin.

"I'll tell the family," John announced, and many of the staff around him nodded or murmured their thanks. Several nurses squeezed his shoulder as he passed. John nodded with a pained smile each time and returned the gesture. Losing patients was never easy, but it was part of the job. A healthy, well-balanced team was there for each other, and John had no doubt he would hear about this in the break room several times as people processed their memories and emotional reactions to the death. John would too, but first he had to inform the family.

Mrs. Morris was survived by her husband, Matthew, their two daughters Martha and Janet, and five grandchildren. Matthew and Janet were waiting in a nearby lounge, having been detained when they'd come to visit Jane. John sighed and tried not to count his steps as he transversed the short hallway to said lounge.

Twin faces of worry met his gaze as soon as he stepped into the room. Both Mr. Morris and Janet rose immediately and walked towards him. Janet's eyes were filled with tears before he even spoke.

"I'm Dr. John Watson," he introduced himself, shaking both of their hands. He wanted to them to understand what was happening as best as they could, but he also didn't want to draw out their suspense, which must be agonizing. "I was part of the medical team working with Mrs. Morris. I'm very sorry to inform you that she just passed away, likely from complications from her surgery."

As soon as the words 'I'm sorry,' were out of his mouth Janet burst into tears, sobbing loudly into her father's shoulder. Mr. Morris was quiet, but his face crumpled and his eyes filled with tears as well. John guided them both back to their seats and spoke softly with them for a few minutes. He explained that the exact cause of Mrs. Morris's cardiac arrest was unknown, but listed the most likely culprits.

"I want to request an autopsy," Mr. Morris said quietly, but adamantly. "We need to know what happened."

John nodded solemnly. "I'll see that it's ordered right away." He assured them both that they could remain in the lounge as long as they needed to, and that they could also flag down a nurse in the next twenty minutes if they wanted to spend anytime saying goodbyes before Mrs. Morris was transferred to the morgue. They both nodded and thanked him. As quietly as he could manage, John left the room.

As soon as he had sat down in the break room, John fished out his phone and called Mary, hoping to catch her on a break.

"Hello, John," Mary greeted him after the third ring, "How are you?" John could hear the smile in her voice and he felt his features softening in response, only now realizing he'd been frowning since he left the Morris family in the patient lounge.

John sighed before speaking, prompting Mary to ask, in a much more focused voice, "What's wrong?" Her concern caused a fleeting smile to dance over his features. Mary was a very dependable and loyal person, both qualities he found highly attractive.

"I lost a patient about twenty minutes ago."

"I'm sorry, John," she said in a sigh, her words breathy. "How did the family take it?"

John shrugged even though he knew she couldn't see him. "As well as could be expected."

Mary hummed softly in response. "Have I told you that Sarah finally brought on some more staff to help fill in your hours."

"How are they doing?" John asked, grateful for the change in topic. Mary likely would have told him about this over dinner, but, working in the same field, she knew the importance of taking a break and distracting yourself after tough calls.

There was a long pause before Mary answered, "I think she specifically advertised for a mad doctor."

"Oh?" John asked, intrigued. Mary was a seasoned nurse and not many things shook her or surprised her.

"Dr. Hutchison," Mary sighed in exasperation. "She's a skilled doctor and she seemed to be a lovely person with good boundaries at first, but now… Every time I turn around I see or hear her whispering to Sarah about this staff member or that one. I only caught small snippets of their conversation but it seems like every time someone so much as glances at her, she takes offence!"

"For what?" John asked, leaning back in his seat, and cradling his phone close to his ear with one hand.

"I don't know! It sounds like she misinterprets the looks she gets or what people say to her. I'm not saying that being a new doctor on staff can't be difficult, but I think she's inventing these insults in her head. Just today, I overheard she was insisting that Dr. Delany was the only mature person on staff! I don't think she'll last a month at this rate."

John's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "Don't let her catch you talking like this, then."

Mary chuckled softly. "No worries on that front, I'm walking back from lunch now, I'm still blocks away from the clinic. How is Mr. Hawthorne doing?"

"Better," John replied with a smile. "He's calmer most days, and talks about the future more often now. I think he's trying to focus on where he can best use his knowledge."

"No doctors without borders for him eh?"

John shook his head, thinking of the poor conditions, limited supplies, and the types of conditions such doctors often faced. "No, but a good doctor here at home is always needed."

"True enough," Mary agreed. There was a brief pause before she added. "Do you want to grab food out tonight?"

"Sounds good. Where would you like to go?" John asked.

"There's a nice little Italian place close by," Mary offered. "I think it's called…. La Piazza."

" _I'll get a candle for the table, it's more romantic."_

" _I'm not his date."_

John swallowed and nodded, willing the memory away. "I'll meet you there an hour after my shift?"

"I'll be there," Mary confirmed. They said their goodbyes and ended the call. John stretched, looked around him, and let out a long breath. The day was far from over, and it was time to get back to it.

* * *

Mary met John outside the restaurant. She had changed from her work scrubs into a soft pink dress with black leggings; he could see the edges of the dress peeking out around her tan coat. She greeted him with a hug and ushered him inside, out of the bitter winter winds.

They were seated by the fireplace, and John was more grateful than was reasonable that the table did not have a candle. Once their drinks were ordered, they were left to peruse the menu at their leisure. After a few moment's Mary's voice broke the silence, "You've been at Charing Cross for a while now, is it everything you hoped it would be?"

John nodded and smiled reflexively. "I'm very happy there. There's always something new happening, it's challenging and rewarding, and I have the opportunity to help mentor the residents."

Mary sipped her water and stared at John over the rim. Her gaze was penetrating. John saw the muscles of her throat work as she swallowed, then she spoke. "But?"

John frowned. All the things he had said _were_ true…but no job in the world could simulate the cases he worked with Sherlock… and it wasn't _just_ the cases he missed. His chest tightened and he found himself looking down at the table top. He was trying _so_ hard to move forward, but Mary, one of his newest friends, had seen through him in an instant.

Mary's hand came forward to cover his and John forced himself to look up, blinking quickly. "I'm sorry if I'm bringing up a sore subject." She leaned forward towards him, speaking softly. "I know what it's like, trying to start over again in a way you never expected. Not in exactly the same way," she admitted, "But I know enough to understand the pressure you might feel to put on a good face, both to ease your own pain, and to, by any means necessary, convince the rest of the world to stop looking at you with pity or concern." Her fingers curled around John's wrist and her thumb began to move slowly back and forth over the skin of his arm. "I'll change the topic if you'd like me to, but I wanted you to know that you _could_ talk if you wanted to. I don't judge and I'm very good at keeping secrets."

John nodded, returning her gentle smile with his own, grateful for her understanding. He hadn't really talked about his circumstances to anyone. Work wasn't the place and so many of his friends: Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, all their lives were too closely tied with Sherlock's… It wasn't that he never meant to speak with them again, but recently the thought of speaking to them had been too painful.

Mary slowly withdrew her hand as the waiter approached to deliver their wine and take their orders. John hadn't intended to speak, but when they were alone again the words were out of his mouth before he could think better of them.

"I've been trying for years to get people to mind their own business when it comes to Sherlock and me, but it never worked…" He shook his head and paused to sip his wine. "I don't know why I ever thought it would."

"You mean how people insinuated that you were a couple?" Mary asked

John nodded, staring fixedly into his wine glass.

"How was it, really?" Mary's voice was still soft, and her face was calm.

John sighed, his eyes clouding with memories. "We were everything but, if I'm honest. At least I think we were." His voice was as soft as Mary's had been, reflecting the hurt he still felt. "We spent all of our time together. If I wasn't running mad all over London with him, or sometimes farther, then we were at home and I was trying to convince him not to blow up the flat."

Mary chuckled softly and John couldn't help but smile at the image. "I don't _think_ that was his actual goal, but Sherlock and his _boredom_ took a toll on everyone and everything in their wake." John continued.

"I remember reading about the thumbs in the fridge on your blog," Mary replied, sipping her wine again.

John smiled fondly, despite himself. "And the eyes in the microwave." For the love of everything sacred John never suspected he would ever miss _body parts in the kitchen_ …but despite his gratitude at the reduced blood borne pathogens risk… he did miss it, and everything else about Sherlock.

"That's why you started cutting back hours at the surgery?" Mary asked "Because of the time you spent with Sherlock?"

John nodded. "He never stops working when he's on a case, he won't sleep or eat for days sometimes."

"Which meant you wouldn't either," Mary supplied helpfully.

John nodded again, and then smiled ruefully. "I needed to sleep sometime, so I cut my hours." Resentment and self-doubt bubbled up inside John at the recollections. Sherlock had never asked for or even encouraged John's attentions, and still John had been so run away with his feelings, so resigned to a close friendship and partnership, that he'd willingly stretched himself thin for someone who, as it appeared, did not care about him in the slightest.

"Was there any quiet time between cases and experiments?" Mary asked, and John shuddered.

"Those were the worst times. It was everything we could do to prevent Sherlock from smoking himself to oblivion or shooting holes in the walls to alleviate boredom."

"Did he really?" Mary asked with a wry smile, which John couldn't help but return. Sherlock had forever warped his sense of humor.

"He really did," John confirmed, "With my gun no less; he shot a smiley face into Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper."

Mary almost grinned at him over her wine glass. "And the police were too familiar with him to respond to gunshots at 221B?"

John shrugged, his expression somewhat wistful. "More or less."

Mary's hand was on John's again, squeezing softly as she asked, "What separated you from him?"

John flinched at the words, almost pulling away. Mary started to apologize, but John held up a hand to stop her. He'd seen enough patients, and suffered enough of his own painful experiences, to know that avoiding painful experiences was counterproductive more often than not.

"He asked me to leave." The words were clipped as anger and resentment resurfaced.

" _It's distracting. I thought I could ignore it, but it's always in my way."_

"Just like that?" Mary asked, leaning forward on her folded arms.

" _I don't want you_ _ **here**_ _anymore!"_

"Just like that," John agreed reaching for his wine, hoping it would fortify him.

"Damn," Mary muttered softly, staring at the tablecloth for a moment.

"It was past time," John assured her. "He has his work, and as fun as it was working with him, I do have my own career to think about."

Mary's face softened as she looked up at John. "It's not easy, losing someone you love."

John immediately flushed with anger and embarrassment. "I _don't_ love Sherlock Holmes," he insisted. The refusal was automatic and adamant. He knew it wouldn't stop people from speculating, it never had, but being honest about this part of it, to _anyone_ else right now felt like too much. He'd been honest with Mary about everything else, but this part of the injury was too fresh, too raw. He _couldn't_ go there right now. Maybe when he no longer loved Sherlock… but not now.

"John Watson, look at me." Mary's words were sharp.

John's eyes found hers slowly, reluctantly.

Mary searched John's face, pinning him with her gaze and seeming to look through all the layers that weighed him down. "I know that you loved him the first time I met you." She smiled slightly and shook her head. "You should've seen the look on your face when you said his name."

John's lips parted in a pained grimace. Everything in him revolted at the idea of a confession, when his last confession had resulted in so much pain, but Mary had been true to her word, and had never once seemed to judge or pressure him. At length he replied, "Love isn't always enough, Mary."

She lifted her hand and her fingers caressed his cheek as she whispered sadly, "No…but it _always_ should be."

John lifted his hands to Mary's and held them, unable to respond, but grateful for her company.

* * *

John stared at the ceiling, once again chasing sleep. His dinner with Mary had gone well. She was excellent company and despite the charged discussion early in the evening, their time together had not felt awkward or strained. Even so his mind kept coming back to what they had discussed. Images of his partnership with Sherlock danced through his head, reminding him of _everything_ he'd lost.

John rolled onto his side, and his eyes flickered up to his phone, currently resting on the small cabinet beside his bed. He thought of all the people that he'd been ignoring. Other than Mary he hadn't spoken to anyone outside of his work in weeks… It really was time to fix that.

With a resigned sigh John reached out and picked up his phone. It was late, but Greg often worked late, and even when he wasn't working he kept his phone close in case a sudden call came in. Sherlock's words from so many years ago rose up, unbidden, as so many memories had before:

" _That's why she's going to leave him, you know. She's not satisfied being his second priority."_

John had seen Sherlock's point, even then, but that had only made him think less of Greg's now ex-wife. Greg sacrificed so many things for his job, and all because he genuinely wanted to make the world a safer place than it was. John knew his perspective was skewed. He had…did love Sherlock for his similar devotions, but John had also been with Sherlock the majority of the time that he was working, and he had…different expectations than a spouse would.

Unwilling to delve any further into that line of thinking, John scrolled through his contacts until he saw Greg's name. Greg had sent John scores of texts and calls since his separation from Sherlock, and _all_ of them had gone unanswered. They'd started out simple enough.

 _John, you okay, mate?_

 _John, please pick up the phone._

 _Seriously, why aren't you with Sherlock? What's going on?_

 _Whatever this is, I don't like it._

Greg's messages never became urgent, probably because Sherlock and Mycroft both had been able to assure him that, while John continuously failed to return Greg's messages, he was, in fact, safe. More or less. What John hadn't expected was Greg's shift from prying to concern for Sherlock.

 _You should see the state of the flat, John… it's worse than it ever was before you joined him._

 _I don't think Sherlock's eating… he's lost weight again._

 _John, I can't even get him to take cases now; something is seriously wrong…_

John _had_ seen these texts, but he hadn't let himself dwell on them. Sherlock was none of his concern, not any longer. …If Sherlock had been truly isolated, John's conscience might have prevailed upon him to do more, but as it was Sherlock had Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Mycroft looking out for him. Mrs. Hudson was much more formidable than most people would give her credit for, Greg had been looking after Sherlock for years, and Mycroft, for all of his foibles, really did love his brother, and would never, if it was within his power, let anything happen to Sherlock.

For his own sanity John had looked at those texts as little as possible, and had deleted the voicemails before he could even listen to them. Sherlock had survived for years without John, John's absence could hardly mean so much to him now, especially since he had dismissed John so easily.

John's suspicions had been quickly justified by some of Greg's most recent texts.

 _Sherlock is acting strange… He was working a case for me today and he_ _ **thanked**_ _Molly for her help._

 _John, Sherlock actually came with me to file a report the day I asked him! What's going on with him?_

 _Now I know he's ill, the new detective on-scene contaminated some evidence and he didn't even complain!_

John thought very little of these most recent texts. He didn't see anything in them beyond Greg's desire for an explanation and, perhaps, a desire for a return to normalcy. If Sherlock thanked someone, was cooperative, or didn't verbally eviscerate someone, it was probably because that was the most expedient thing to do for the case, or because he was distracted by something he deemed "more important."

John sighed softly and typed out a message.

 _Hey. Sorry I've been out of touch lately._

Less than a minute later, John's phone pinged with a response.

 _John! Good to hear from you! Where have you been hiding?_

 _What, Mycroft hasn't told you?_

Greg and Mycroft had been a couple for some time now, but John suspected only their closest friends knew. They were both very discrete. They fit well together, both were highly focused on their career, and both worked in the endless effort to save Sherlock from himself. They seemed happy, and John was glad for them. Slightly resentful of their good fortune at the moment, but glad all the same.

… _I only asked if you were safe, John. I didn't want to invade your privacy, but you were just suddenly_ _ **gone**_ _._

 _I know, I'm sorry. I switched jobs and I moved, there's just been a lot of changes recently._

There was a long pause, and John's gut twisted with unease. He didn't want Greg to pry, even though John's abrupt departure and complete lack of communication somewhat warranted an explanation, especially since Greg had become a good friend over the years.

Greg, however, seemed to be feeling merciful, as his next reply was simply:

 _Do you want to watch a game down at the O'Brian pub sometime?_

John smiled in relief and gave a quick reply.

 _Sounds good. How about this Saturday._

 _See you at 7?_

 _See you then._

 _Good to hear from you, John. Have a good night._

 _Night. :)_

John set his phone down and rolled over, trying to find a comfortable position. The ache that he'd grown so accustomed to, however, was still there, and sleep did not come easy.


	11. Displaced

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to sweetmarly, and Brown Eyed Girl-62 for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

 **Trigger warning: Car crash and injuries described. Also mentions of drug use (generally not a good idea, especially the way Sherlock does it).**

* * *

Chapter 10: Displaced

The streets were cold and icy, but neither of those things were really a deterrent for Sherlock. He _would_ rather be at 221 B, but he knew Mycroft _and_ Greg were waiting for him. Apparently it wasn't good enough that he was working cases again. They were still 'concerned'. His behavior was still altered. They were right about his behavior being altered, but Sherlock still considered their reaction hyperbolic. They wanted to do something, but there was nothing to do. John was gone, and both Sherlock and he were going about their lives.

Sherlock's fingers clenched reflexively as he walked. Mycroft and he had made a game of Charing Cross's security camera system these past few weeks. When Mycroft had traced Sherlock's hacks, he'd placed more robust firewalls in place, without the knowledge of Charing Cross's administrative staff. These had actually required some effort to break through, but nothing too extraneous. The intensity of Charing Cross's security camera system's firewall increased every time Sherlock had accessed it. Regardless of Mycroft's efforts, Sherlock had never failed to access the video feed from Charing Cross's security cameras. Having them on, foolishly, gave Sherlock a sense of comfort.

John was gone and that was the way it should be for John's happiness, but his absence had become much more of a distraction for Sherlock than his presence ever had been. The video feed from Caring Cross was _safe_. It provided plenty of distance and no form of actual communication. Sherlock _had_ spent time specifically watching John work his shifts, but he had also spent significant periods of time with the camera feed up on his laptop while he'd worked on experiments or did research for cases. Watching John's progress, seeing him happy hurt almost as much as it helped, but he couldn't stop doing it.

Sherlock knew Mycroft would become concerned, just as Sherlock's occasional drug use concerned him, but controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality. Likewise Sherlock saw no real detriment to his accessing the security cameras. It hurt, and it also helped him concentrate. If ever his concentration waivered he only needed to look up, or to cross the room to his laptop to see that John was safe, assuming of course that John was working. It hadn't taken Sherlock long to memorize John's usual shifts, but he still checked regularly for sudden adjustments.

The security camera was a harmless, if futile indulgence. Mycroft and Greg, on the other hand… Sherlock wasn't one to be told what to do, ever, but in this case the reconciliation they would no doubt push for _was_ tempting, and Sherlock was concerned that he was just selfish enough to listen to them… So, when he'd recognized the signs of an impending visit, he'd left. Mycroft could have made it more difficult for him, but both brothers had learned by now that it was best not to corner each other…that only ever ended in disaster.

Sherlock speculated that Mycroft and Greg would linger in 221 B until just after midnight, but if they stayed longer he would have no difficulty finding a place to sleep rough…or more accurately, sit rough and watch John on the night shift via his phone. John did occasionally pick up extra shifts, most doctors working for accident and emergency did, so it was always worth checking, but John had defiantly been scheduled for tonight. For the first time since they had begun their…association Johns work schedule had a fixed place in the heart of Sherlock's mind palace.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, John didn't start his shift for another thirty minutes. Sherlock sighed and, for a few moments, focused his eyes on the streets around him. There were plenty of people out and about still, many subjects he could deduce if he so chose…but the last time he had attempted that he'd fallen into a case he hadn't planned for, and for reasons that had more to do with John than himself. No, better to focus inwards for now. Lestrade was still a source of regular cases, and if there was something really worthwhile going on, it wouldn't stay outside his notice for long.

For the time being, Sherlock turned his mind inward, settling on Mycroft and Lestrade. Things weren't likely to escalate from the current standoff, and with time they would, hopefully, both relax. John wasn't going to come back, and life would go on.

Sherlock swallowed and forced himself to return his attention to Mycroft and Lestrade exclusively. The possibility of his brother and Lestrade entering into a romantic relationship had not escaped him, but when that possibility had become a reality, it had surprised him. Mycroft and Lestrade had developed their association, initially, with the focus of keeping Sherlock alive. His substance use in his younger years had been excessive, a futile attempt to alleviate the boredom before he'd properly settled into his career.

Mycroft and Lestrade had continued their association, on and off, as Sherlock began to stabilize. Shortly after John had become a fixture in Sherlock's life there had been little reason for Mycroft and Lestrade to continue their association. The likelihood that they would still interact was high because of their mutual association with Sherlock, but it was still not likely that they would interact often. Sherlock wasn't clear on the details, but his brother and Lestrade must have continued meeting.

Sherlock remembered one afternoon at the close of a particularly fulfilling case when he'd observed Mycroft hand Lestrade an umbrella. It was one of Mycroft's, which was all the more shocking because Mycroft was very particular about objects which belonged to him. That umbrella, and Lestrade's divorce, finalized six months prior, told Sherlock everything he needed to know.

Naturally he had made a point of observing Lestrade closely when opportunity presented, and commenting on what he observed. Lestrade was not amused, but for the most part he had learned to ignore Sherlock. Sherlock knew things had turned serious when Mycroft had taken it upon himself to text him:

 _Please try not to torment Gregory, Sherlock. If the work you are doing for him is not stimulating enough, I could always provide additional cases._

 _That_ was what had finally given Sherlock pause. He hated working cases for his brother, they were too restricting, and his brother did not make idle threats.

As it turned out, Mycroft's warning text had come three weeks before Sherlock's final entanglement with Moriarty, and Sherlock's time away…

Everyone had taken that particular turn of events badly, but Lestrade especially so. Not only did he have to contend with the lie of Sherlock's death, but he'd had to reconcile himself with the fact that Mycroft had _known_ it was a lie.

Once he had returned Sherlock had surprised Lestrade in a parking garage. The older man had just lifted a cigarette to his lips and by way of greeting Sherlock had stepped out of the shadows and said, "Those things will kill you."

Lestrade had cursed and pulled him into a hug, overjoyed to have his friend back again. Sherlock hadn't meant for Lestrade to become a friend either, but he had. Moriarty had found his friends, and targeted them, and because Sherlock _cared_ the acceptable choices of action had been extremely limited.

" _I will rip the_ _ **heart**_ _out of you!"_

A rueful smile played across Sherlock's lips for a moment. Moriarty had tried, but in the end Sherlock had been his own worst enemy.

Brining his attention back to Lestrade, Sherlock remembered seeing the Detective Inspector a week after his return. Sherlock had been called in on his first official case since his return. John still wasn't speaking to him at that juncture, so he'd come alone. Lestrade had looked more haggard than usual, and a sliver of a shirt was peeking out of one of Lestrade's desk drawers. The fact that Lestrade and his brother had been living together had shocked Sherlock more than their sudden separation. He had been so surprised that he hadn't actually commented on his observations.

He'd seen Mycroft a few weeks later, just before John had agreed to move back into 221 B. Mycroft had made a habit of sporadic visits before John had been a part of his life, and he had resumed them in that brief interval where John had left his life. At that moment in time, however, the visit had not rankled as much as the tired look in Mycroft's eyes. Sherlock had always made a point of railing against sentiment, while Mycroft simply never mentioned it, as if the notion didn't exist in his world beyond being a tactical disadvantage… and yet…

Sherlock had flopped dramatically onto the sofa and, as usual, pretended to ignore Mycroft by pulling out his phone. This time, however, it wasn't just for show; he was sending a text to John.

 _Bring Lestrade to 221 B, please. – SH_

Sherlock wasn't in the habit of saying please to anyone. At that time John and he were barely on speaking terms and, for all their respective blustering, Sherlock and Mycroft did care about each other. Several minutes later, Sherlock received a reply text.

 _This had better be good, Sherlock._

John's initial reaction to Sherlock's return had been violent, and at that time Sherlock had been at a loss as to how to restore things to how they had been before. Still, John was reliable and loyal. He hadn't said he _wouldn't_ bring Lestrade, which naturally meant that he would.

Mycroft stiffened as soon as John and Lestrade's footfalls could be detected, but before he could respond Sherlock was at the door, welcoming Lestrade into his flat.

" _What's all this about then_?" Lestrade had asked, looking everywhere but at Mycroft.

" _I was just going to take John out for a pint_ ," Sherlock had replied, wedging himself between Lestrade and John so that Lestrade was inside the flat and he and John were just outside. " _Since you had an appointment with my brother, and he happened to be visiting, I thought it would save the most time for you and John to come together._ "

" _I don't have a—_ " Lestrade had started to say, but Sherlock closed the door in his face.

Lestrade continued to call after Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't turn his gaze away from John.

" _I was going to go to the pub on the corner_ ," Sherlock had said at last. " _Will you come_?"

John had hesitated at the question. Sherlock didn't normally ask, he was in the habit of demanding.

" _Yeah, alright_ ," John had replied, nodding once, and turning to walk down the stairs.

They had walked in complete silence down the stairs, through the street, and into the pub. Once inside they moved towards a booth in the back, neither stopping for the pretense of ordering drinks.

It was John who broke the silence first by asking, " _Do you really think this will make them talk? Locking them both together in 221 B_?"

Sherlock had given a wry smile and shook his head. " _They're not locked in, and I can't think of many locks that would actually hold them. They want to talk, or else they would have never let me shut the door._ "

John nodded. " _Like how I actually came to 221 B, and followed you to this pub_."

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock had replied, " _Exactly_." The silence had returned then, stretching into long, uncomfortable minutes before Sherlock had spoken again. " _I'm sorry, John_."

" _And you expect that to make up for everything you've put me though over the past two years, hm?_ " John asked, his face flushing with anger.

" _No_ ," Sherlock had said quietly, his gaze still fixed on John. " _But I would do it again_."

" _Christ, Sherlock_!" John spat, hitting his hand against the table in frustration. He had stared fixedly out the window for a few moments, his breath coming in quick pants. John ran a hand over his face and through his hair before finally asking, " _Why_?" in a quiet, defeated voice.

" _Because caring about you, wouldn't have saved you_."

John had looked up at Sherlock through the fingers of his hands, which covered his face. At length he sighed and dropped his hands. " _I can't pretend to know all the specifics, since_ _ **someone**_ _didn't give me all the details…but you do have an annoying habit of being right_."

They shared a wan smile before a waitress who either had no ability to read the mood at their table, or, if it was possible, cared less for social niceties than Sherlock, approached them and asked for their order. Sherlock had turned towards the waitress, given her their drink orders, and turned back to John.

Again they had stared at each other for a long moment before John spoke. " _You remember my favorite beer_." It wasn't a question.

" _I do_." Sherlock had agreed.

A smile, with more joy than Sherlock had really expected, crept over John's face and he shook his head. " _I know who my flatmate is. It would hardly be sensible to expect him to be anyone else_."

At the time Sherlock had been grateful that John had recognized the significance of that information; that Sherlock frequently deleted basic information about the solar system from his mind palace because it was not important, but he _did_ remember John's typical drink order. In this present moment, still wandering the cold damp streets of London because his brother and Lestrade were waiting for him back at 221 B, eager to express their 'concern' in person, Sherlock wished _he_ had recognized the real significance of that moment; he should have seen both their feelings and acted then, instead of being willfully blind and causing even more pain.

Greg and Mycroft _had_ managed to talk through their difficulties as well that night. They had been gone by the time Sherlock and John had returned from the pub, but the rumpled blanket Mrs. Hudson normally stretched pristinely over the back of the sofa told Sherlock everything he needed to know. To the best of Sherlock's knowledge there had never been another rift as large as that one between his brother and Lestrade. They were happy, and by every means of observation Sherlock possessed, it appeared that they would stay that way. It wasn't an impossible or even a very taxing feat, most people simply did not put the necessary effort into communication.

Not that Sherlock intended to use his own communication skills to reconcile with John. John had been very clear when he'd left that he wasn't coming back, and Sherlock loved him too much to persuade him when Sherlock knew he'd only hurt John again.

Screeching tires and a spray of water from the road caught Sherlock's attention before he could redirect it himself. A car was trying to stop too abruptly, and was hydroplaning out of control, close to the curb. In an instant Sherlock watched the car jump the curb and crash into a lamp post. A young woman had been standing by the lamp post waiting, with a violin case in her hand. She had tried to jump out of the way when the car jumped the curb, but she'd lost her balance and in her falling, her arm had been pinned between the car and the lamp post.

A man and a woman rushed up and pushed at the car, trying to free the pinned woman while she half crouched, still cradling her violin case to her chest. Her face was pulled taunt, and several strands of her brown hair, which had been pulled up into a tight bun, had fallen loose to frame her agonized expression. Both the radius and ulna had been fractured, that much was obvious to Sherlock from five feet away, but the woman made no sound.

The injured woman was dressed neatly in an elegant but simple emerald green dress which stopped just below her knees. Black stockings encased her legs, and her shoes were simple but posh black flats. Her attire was formal, but not ostentatious, and they were almost in sight of the Royal Opera House. Her violin case was weathered, but meticulously cared for. She must have just gotten off work, and been waiting for someone to pick her up.

Metal scraped along asphalt as the car started to give. Sherlock stepped forward and caught the woman as her arm came free and she fell forward. He eased her to her knees, kneeling alongside her as he suspected she might faint from shock or pain. She didn't faint, but struggled to regain her balance.

"I wouldn't stand up just now. No, don't look at the wound either, not unless you have a strong stomach for blood," Sherlock instructed, keeping one arm firmly around the woman while his free hand retrieved his phone and dialed 999. Sherlock reported the accident, ordered two ambulances and reported their current address. Once he was sure the dispatcher had the correct information he hung up and returned his attention to the woman in his arms.

The woman _had_ listened, and kept her gaze fixed on Sherlock's shoulder while her broken arm hung limp and useless at her side. Her violin case was still cradled in her good arm, nestled between her chest and his.

"Is my dad okay?" the woman asked, glancing momentarily over her shoulder at the car. "He was coming to pick me up." Her words and breathing were strained with pain, but otherwise she was remarkably calm.

Sherlock glanced up at the wreck. The man behind the wheel was slumped over it, pressing incessantly on the horn while worried onlookers debated the wisdom of moving him from the car. "Concussion, internal bruising and three cracked ribs," he reported. "He should be fine. He wouldn't be feeling anything if he were conscious, given his blood alcohol level."

Then woman in his arms cursed softly. "I _told_ him not to drink!" She muttered, tears pooling in the corner of her eyes. Not tears of physical pain, but emotional.

"Nicole!"

Sherlock and 'Nicole' looked up to see a middle aged man with flat, disapproving gray eyes and dull brown hair that had once been blond.

"What happened?" The man asked, crouching beside Sherlock and Nicole. Sherlock did nothing to hide the disapproving look on his face. The man before them appeared sympathetic, but he was anything but. This was a self-seeking individual who wanted to _look_ sympathetic but wouldn't feel bad about terminating Nicole's employment with the Royal Opera House because her injury would leave her unable to fill her chair for several months. The man's tone and expression made everything painfully obvious.

"It was an accident Mr. Walker," Nicole said, her features defiant even if her tone was respectful. She'd had enough disappointments from her father to know what to expect from men like Mr. Walker.

"You poor dear," Mr. Walker cooed with no real sincerity, it would appear sincere to the onlookers who had gathered, but that was only due to societies' general stupidity and lack of real observation. "That looks bad." Mr. Walker frowned and sigh with the same mock concern. "You'll need to take some time to heal, of course, but I'm afraid we will have to hold auditions for first chair violinist." Mr. Walker made to put a hand on Nichole's shoulder, pausing when she flinched away from him.

Mr. Walker pressed on, either oblivious or uncaring of Nichole's emotional distress. "We can't leave the chair empty with so many important performances coming up. And we wouldn't _dream_ of asking you to play with your injury, no, no. Of course you would be welcome to audition for any open positions we still have once you're fully recovered. Oh, I am so sorry, Nichole."

The tears brimming in Nichole's eyes overflowed and spilled down her pale cheeks, but she did not look away. She wanted to argue, but saw no grounds with which to build her argument. She was resolved, however, that much was obvious to Sherlock. She'd used her resolve to gain first chair in the first place, practicing relentlessly in the hopes of escaping her alcoholic father as well as for her love of music. The sight would have infuriated John. Sherlock could all but hear him now.

" _What the_ _ **hell**_ _do you think you're doing; giving this women's seat away?! She's earned it and she'll make a full recovery. This was_ _ **not**_ _her fault!_ "

John didn't get angry often, but when he did he was a force to be reckoned with.

"I can play for her." The words were out of Sherlock's mouth before he knew they were forming.

Mr. Walker turned slowly towards Sherlock, frowning. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock thrust his chin out at Mr. Walker, not in the least intimidated. "I'll play for her. That will save time on useless auditions and allow Nikki to reclaim her seat seamlessly, once she's recovered."

Mr. Walker's frowned deepened. "That would be highly irregular Mr…"

"That's Sherlock Holmes!" One of the nearby gawkers cried. "He's that famous detective. Brilliant at the violin, too, I heard!"

With that one exclamation the entire crowd began to murmur and Mr. Walker's faced darkened with recognition. Still, he appeared to make an effort to adopt a friendly expression. "Surely you're too busy for all that, Mr. Holmes. There's always more crime in London."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Yes, but there can be a complete dearth of really _interesting_ cases from time to time. I've mostly been collaborating with my brother, Mycroft. If you've read any of my cases his name might sound familiar. _Minor_ government official. But even he's not had much to go on lately. No good fraud or corruption cases, never mind a murder."

Mr. Walker's eyes narrowed again and Sherlock knew his threat had not been missed. Mr. Walker was not an ethical businessman, despite what appearances may be, and it was a pressure point Sherlock had every intention of exploiting if necessary.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to hear you play," Mr. Walker allowed.

"I should have some time, just after Nikki is loaded into the ambulance," Sherlock replied with a calculated smile. The ambulances arrived at just that moment, and it took almost no time at all for Sherlock to help the first responders secure Nikki onto a gurney.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Nikki murmured, wiping away tears with her good hand.

Sherlock nodded and leaned down to speak with her before the gurney was lifted into the waiting ambulance. "Ask them to take you to Charing Cross Hospital, Dr. Watson is on shift tonight, and he'll look after your arm."

Nikki nodded solemnly, and Sherlock knew she would take his advice. "Here," She said, lifting her violin case out to him with her good arm. "You'll need a violin if you're going to play for Mr. Walker."

Sherlock reached out and accepted the case. "I'll be in touch. I presume you know where to find me."

She smiled then, for the first time and murmured, "221 B Baker Street. Where else?"

Sherlock returned her smile and stepped back to allow her to be loaded into the ambulance.

Well, this was new.

He'd recognized his real motivations in that domestic violence case he'd solved for Lestrade some weeks back, but at least that _was_ a case. This… there was no hiding what this was, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care. He was in love with John and he'd sent him away. It was common for people to make misguided efforts to appease absent or deceased loved ones, despite how illogical such actions often where. If Sherlock wasn't impervious to falling in love then why should he be any different?

Again John's would-be opinion drifted through his mind:

" _Only_ _ **you**_ _could find a selfish way to do a selfless thing_."

It wasn't a case, but it was something to do. Better still, there was always the chance a case could find him. The theater was no stranger to real life drama. As the ambulance pulled away from the curb Sherlock turned and marched past Mr. Walker towards the Royal Opera House.

Mr. Walker sputtered angrily, and rushed to get in front of Sherlock, his bruised ego spurring him on. "Are you familiar with Nichole, Mr. Holmes?" Mr. Walker asked, glancing back over his shoulder as they walked.

"I only met her tonight." Sherlock clarified, rolling his eyes at Mr. Walker's obvious hunt for any reason or excuse he could use to turn Sherlock away.

"Why put yourself through so much trouble for a stranger?" Mr. Walker pressed, as Sherlock had known he would.

"It's always entertaining to frustrate an idiot," Sherlock replied as Mr. Walker paused to open the door to his office.

"I'm sorry?" Mr. Walker asked, turning around to face Sherlock once the door was open.

"No, you're not. You're desperate to be rid of me; and Nikki by the looks of it. You don't like her, and you may owe someone a favor, given your less than reputable business dealings. Offering them first chair violin might help you repay that favor given how determined you are to seize this 'opportunity.'"

"Sir!" Mr. Walker cried in indignation. "I respect every and value member of our orchestra!"

"Which is why you can't even remember that her preferred name is Nikki, and not Nichole," Sherlock replied, stepping into Mr. Walker's personal space, as he continued to block the way into his office.

"How did you know that?" Mr. Walker blustered, leaning back slightly.

"It is a reasonable inference given her expression when you called her by her given name. Although there is a ten percent chance she objects to your company in general. Shall we get started?" Sherlock eased past Mr. Walker and into his office. He set down Nikki's violin case on his desk and pulled out the violin while Mr. Walker continued to gawk and sputter at him from the doorway to his own office.

Once Sherlock had confirmed the instrument was tuned, he rested the bow against the strings and began to play. Mr. Walker attempted to talk over the first few notes to clarify the current production, as if that hadn't been obvious by the advertisements and posters they'd passed along the way. Nikki's instrument was not equal to his, but it was good enough.

The irony of the music was not lost on him. This piece in particular was full of longing, despair and, at the end, hope. Hope seemed like a very foolish thing to have at the end of this piece, considering that, in most interpretations at least one of the main characters, often both, died. Still there were very few endings of this ballet that didn't allude to the lovers being reunited, even if both were dead and came together only in the afterlife.

Sherlock, who had often used composition, or simple practice as a way of gathering his thoughts, lost himself in the piece. It was ludicrously sentimental and yet he found it gave voice to the quiet storm that had been brewing inside him. He couldn't _talk_ to anyone about it, not that he'd ever made a habit of talking to others in the first place, and all his mental rumination wouldn't change reality. In the music there was desperation, betrayal, and a desperate plea for forgiveness. He wouldn't ask John for forgiveness, and he didn't deserve it, but despite all logic and reason he _wanted_ it, he wanted it _all_. He wanted a chance he'd never let himself take, a connection he'd severed, a heart he had absolutely no right to…

As the bow left the strings for the final time Sherlock found his breathing had elevated, and he had to blink open his eyes, not remembering when he had closed them. Mr. Walker, the surly and self-serving director stood off to the side, leaning against his desk. Whatever scheme or power play he had been about to attempt had died on his lips as Sherlock began to play. Observing Mr. Walker now, Sherlock found him not exactly moved by Sherlock's rendition of the closing piece, but definitely affected. He frowned, and most likely wanted to protest that Sherlock's suggested arrangement to preserve Nikki's seat would not work, but he did not. At length, and after a few failed attempts to speak, he managed to force out, "That…will do."

Sherlock nodded once, and gently returned the violin to its case. Picking up the case he said, "I will be here tomorrow for rehearsal." Without giving Mr. Walker a chance to protest or tediously draw out their meeting, Sherlock turned and left his office. There were sputters and cries of indignation, but Sherlock barely registered them.

His plans for the evening had been materially altered. He wouldn't risk going close to 221 B tonight, but he didn't want to sleep rough with Nikki's prized possession when he'd just agreed to assist her. He knew several places that would accept cash payment for a room for the night, and two of them were safe enough for him to use his phone to hack Charing Cross's security system and observe John without the need to spend any additional attention monitoring the violin, assuming he locked the door behind him. Sherlock quickly decided on a specific motel, and set off along into the night.


	12. Pleas Unspoken

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to Brown Eyed Girl-62 and sweetmarly for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

* * *

Chapter 11: Pleas Unspoken

John sighed and pushed himself up into a sitting position. Sleep had been generally illusive since his exile from 221 B, but tonight it had abandoned him entirely. He _missed_ the blissful, dead-to-the-world sleeps he used to enjoy after a closed case…but those were things of the past now.

John swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stretched. His muscles were sore from his work and his limited rest. His concentration hadn't suffered and neither did his bedside manner, when he concentrated. He wasn't painfully sleep deprived, but he was uncomfortable. It would pass, though. It would have to.

Standing, John pulled on his robe, which he had left draped over the foot board of his bed for those nights that were particularly rough. He could only lay and stare at the ceiling for so long. John carefully opened the door to his room and stepped out into the sitting room. Despite the bad examples Sherlock had set for him, he didn't want to wake Mary. She was a light sleeper and very grumpy when woken early.

Movement and a small noise drew John's attention to the sofa in the far corner, and he realized he needn't have been so concerned about sound; Mary was already awake. She sat huddled into the corner of the sofa with her legs drawn up against her chest. She was still in her pajama t-shirt and trousers, and she'd turned the fireplace on. She had her arms around her legs and her chin resting on her knees; she looked upset. John stepped backwards, hoping to slip back into his room before he disturbed her. As he did so the wooden floor creaked under his weight, alerting Mary to his presence.

"You don't have to leave on my account." Mary's voice was soft and a bit strained. John suspected she'd been crying.

John hesitated a moment then asked, "Do you want some company?"

Mary nodded. "Normally I wouldn't, but that sounds nice, actually."

John stepped forward, moving across the room and sitting beside her on the sofa. This close he could see the redness in her eyes and cheeks, which again indicated that she had been crying. "Do you want to talk about it?"

A wan smile crossed her lips, before she answered, "Thank you for knowing the difference between wanting company and wanting to talk." She sighed and shifted, uncurling just the slightest bit, although her legs were still drawn close to her chest. "But, no. I don't think talking about it will help. Sometimes I just get caught up in old memories, old resentments." She lifted her eyes to John's and added, "I've seen a few terrible things in my time, and your mind can trap you there if you let it."

"I know what you mean," John replied softly, resting his hand lightly over her foot, which was pressing into his thigh.

Mary smiled when she felt the contact and for a few moments they were silent, listening to the fire crackle.

"What do you normally do, then, when you can't sleep?" John asked.

Mary shrugged. "Usually I stare at the fire for a bit, then maybe watch something on the telly."

John smiled. "You know, I can't remember the last time I was able to watch the telly without someone shouting abuse at it."

"Sherlock?" Mary asked, tilting her head slightly.

John nodded. "Mary, he was worse than a whole room full of hecklers. It was an endless diatribe against the script, the acting, the premise, the set, everything."

Mary chuckled, leaning her head against her knees for a moment. "He sounds like a prime candidate for Mystery Science Theater 3000."

John snorted with laughter at the thought. "God I think I'd like to see that. He'd argue the regular cast right off the set, criticizing them as well. It's a pity they don't make them anymore."

"Actually I think they're bringing it back," Mary replied, letting her legs slip to the floor and her hands gather in her lap.

"Want to see if it's on?" John asked, grabbing the remote.

Mary grinned back at him. "You can try, but I mostly watched during my time in the United States."

They didn't find Mystery Science Theater 3000, but they did spend an enjoyable few hours watching a Black Adder marathon. They shifted in their seats, lounging as fatigue caught up with them, until John was sprawled against the back of the sofa and Mary was leaning into him.

John sighed and closed his eyes. This felt good; so much better than tossing and turning in his bed, tormented by memories he wanted to forget. Not that this time with Mary made those memories go away, it didn't even make them less painful, but it was nice not to be alone.

Shaking herself from an almost slumber at 3:30am, Mary stretched and mumbled. "We should try to get _some_ sleep, we are both working tomorrow."

John groaned in protest, but Mary was relentless, pulling at him until he rose to stand beside her.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," John mumbled, covering his face as a giant yawn came over him. Sleeping on the sofa would have only given them both sore backs. "Thank you for keeping me company."

"Thank you for keeping _me_ company," Mary replied, reaching down for the remote and turning off the telly.

With muffled yawns and tired smiles they both returned to their respective bedrooms for a few hours of restful sleep before the day began.

* * *

The next day was more of a trial than John had been anticipating. Not because of any difficult cases, but because of his own fatigue. There was just enough routine in his day that there were no helpful bursts of adrenaline to assist John in sloughing off his sluggishness, but coffee helped.

John spent the majority of his mid-morning break sat on one of the benches outside the hospital, enjoying his third cup of coffee. He had just tossed his empty cup in the nearby bin and stood to begin making his way back inside, when a familiar figure caught his eye. She was waving and jogging towards him, her sling and cast holding her injured arm close to her body.

"Good Morning Dr. Watson!"

John waved and squinted as the young woman came closer, trying to remember her name. At last it came to him. "Nikki, good morning. How is your arm doing?"

She stopped just in front of him and grinned up at him like a child. "Fine. It still aches, but I'm told that's normal. I just had a checkup and wanted to run over to see if I could thank you again for your help the night of the accident. You were very kind to me."

John remember the night Niki had been brought into Accident and Emergency along with her father. She was the worse off of the two of them; her fractures were severe and had almost been compound. John had talked quietly with her while he examined her, as he would with any patient, to help distract her from the pain. She'd been pale and shaking and he'd worried about her going into shock.

Over the course of the night John learned that Nikki was a violinist and was very concerned about her injury affecting her playing once it was healed. John had reviewed her x-rays with her personally and assured her that while the fractures were severe, and may at one point require surgery, that she should be able to make a full recovery. She was young and strong, and both of those things would work in her favor. John had reviewed the recovery time she could expect while in a cast, and afterwards. He had noted the benefits of physical therapy, and discussed pain management techniques that could be helpful if surgery was needed.

Nikki had remained somber most of the night, but once she had calmed down her expression became resolutely determined. John remembered asking her at the time if she needed any doctor's notes for her employer, seeing as she wouldn't be able to play for some time during the initial stages of healing. That was one of the few times Nikki had smiled that night. She had accepted his offer for a doctor's note and explained that someone had volunteered to cover her seat as first violin while she was recovering. She had looked at him oddly, and stumbled over her story, making John wonder if she felt she had to conceal something, or if her medications were starting to affect her concentration. Given her brief interaction with her father, who suffered a few bruises and a minor concussion, John worried about the safety of her home life.

John smiled warmly. "You're welcome, Nikki. I was happy to be able to help." He nodded once towards her cast, "How is your recovery going?

Nikki glanced down at her cast, then back up at John still smiling. She was almost glowing. "The bones are knitting well, hopefully I won't need surgery."

"That's fantastic news, congratulations!" Surgery, and the screws and steel plates that would likely be inserted during said surgery, had a much higher chance of affecting Nikki's range of motion and dexterity, and although there were work-arounds, John was pleased Nikki may not have to contend with them.

"The premier of the next show we've been working on is next week," Nikki continued. "I'm sad that I won't be able to play, but my substitute is working very hard. They've insisted I still come to rehearsals so I'll be up to date with everything that's happening, even if I can't play. I'm not sure Mr. Walker would have let me come if they hadn't been so adamant."

"I'm glad you've got someone in your corner," John replied, gratified to see his patient so pleased and energetic. Attitude did a lot to affect recovery, and Nikki's seemed to be in remarkably good spirits.

"I brought some tickets with me, actually, to thank you" Nikki continued, fishing small rectangles of paper out of her pocket and holding them out to John. "You should come and see the show, Dr. Watson. I want to show you what you helped me come back to."

John's mouth fell open slightly at Nikki's offer. He was very touched by her kindness, but at the same time he was concerned. Accepting gifts from patients was a tricky ethical issue. It could foster unhealthy boundaries, dual relationships, and generally muddy the waters, especially with such expensive presents. Still, John could see the pride Nikki had in her work and her joy at not having lost what she had worked so hard for.

"I would be honored to go, Nikki, but I absolutely insist on paying you for my ticket," John replied, reaching for his wallet.

Nikki nodded slowly. "I thought you might say that. That's fine, but I have two tickets. Well, three really. I used my benefits to get one for myself, and I bought two more for you, in case you wanted to bring a date. Your tickets are in a different section, don't worry. I didn't want to intrude if you did come."

John smiled as he asked her the price of two tickets, grateful that his patient had such good boundaries. He would have had to refuse entirely if Nikki had intended to ask him on a date. He had vowed to do no harm to his patients and dating any of them was off limits. Not that he hadn't treated Sherlock a number of times, but he had been friends with Sherlock first, and he wasn't really Sherlock's regular doctor.

Forcing his mind back to the task at hand, John wrote a check for the correct amount and handed it to Nikki.

She smiled as she accepted the check. "Thank you for coming Dr. Watson, I think you'll really like the show."

They said their goodbyes to each other, and John watched Nikki walk away, a contented smile on her face. John was glad her prognosis was good, and that she had someone helping her. Her injury could have been career ending if it had been worse, or seriously undermined the work she'd already put in if someone wasn't willing to hold her place.

John looked down at the tickets in his hand, reading for the first time, the name of the ballet he would be attending. He smiled and reached for his phone, calling Mary. When she answered he replied, "Hey, any chance I could convince you to come see Swan Lake with me?"

* * *

John straightened the tie of his best suit, checking his work in the mirror. He hadn't worn this particular suit since Sherlock funeral… He'd almost gotten rid of it altogether when he'd started applying for jobs and going on interviews, but he didn't want Sherlock's cruel dismissal to cost him anymore than it already had.

John tugged on the end of his suit jacket, trying to banish the memories of that terrible day from his mind. It had been raining, but lightly, not enough to motivate anyone in attendance to open up an umbrella, not even Mycroft. Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Anderson, Donovan, and many other people that Sherlock had helped on cases had attended. It was a massive turnout. Many people had spoken, shared stories or anecdotes about how Sherlock had affected their lives. John had been expected to speak at first, but he'd made it abundantly clear to Mycroft when the funeral was being planned that he had no intention of doing so. He couldn't, not so soon after such a devastating loss.

John's words had been stuck in his head for _weeks_ before his fateful visit with Mrs. Hudson. Even then he hadn't been able to speak his piece until she had left, and he was alone.

" _You told me once that you weren't a hero…um…there were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: You were the best man, the most human…human being that I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that's...uh, There. …I was so alone, and I owe you so much… Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that? Just for me, just stop it, stop this._ "

As angry as he had been about Sherlock's deception, John had never been able to ignore how grateful he was at the same time. He'd been given the miracle he had so desperately wanted, regardless of the cost.

" _You remember my favorite beer."_

" _I do."_

In that moment John had been able to forgive Sherlock everything. He would have forgiven him anyway, regardless, but Sherlock's words had helped John see what his pain hadn't let him look at. Sherlock had a reason for what he had done, a good one, regardless of the pain he had caused, and even while he had hurt all those he was closest to in a way that could never be forgotten, it had been done with them in mind…

" _I know who my flatmate is. It would hardly be sensible to expect him to be anyone else_."

A knock on his door startled John out of his reverie. "Are you almost ready?" Mary's voice was muffled by the thick wood of his door.

"Yes, coming," John replied, stepping away from the mirror and memories that were better left forgotten. He opened his door and smiled at Mary, who was waiting just on the other side. She wore a sleeveless form fitting navy dress that hugged her curves all the way to her ankles. "You look beautiful," John said, forcing his eyes, which had followed the curves of her dress to said ankles, back up to Mary's face.

Mary gave him an amused smile. "Thank you. You don't look half bad yourself." She leaned forward and brushed at his shoulder, as if brushing some lint away. "I just got the call, the cab is waiting.

John nodded. "Then we shouldn't keep them." He stepped out of his room, shut the door behind him, and reached for his formal coat, which he'd draped on the back of one of the dining chairs. Mary likewise slipped into her coat and the two of them made their way outside.

John edged in front of Mary and opened the door for her, holding out a hand to help her into the cab. She chuckled, arching an eyebrow at him, but accepted his help all the same.

Once they were seated and the cab was on its way Mary turned to face him. "Thank you again for inviting me, John. It's been a long time since I've seen Swan Lake."

"You're welcome," John replied. "Have you been to the ballet often?"

Mary shrugged. "Not really, just from time to time. I enjoy the art form, but for me it's mostly about the story." A smile bloomed on her face and her eyes grew wistful. "It was always so much fun to take Sean, he was really invested in stories. It didn't matter if they were factual or fictional, he always wanted to see the right thing done. One time, I saw him throw a book across a room because one of the main characters had just been unjustly tortured and he couldn't stand the injustice."

"He sounds like a passionate man," John replied, glancing down at the wedding ring Mary still wore.

"He was," Mary agreed, dabbing discreetly at her eyes. "He had a bit of a hero complex, but I loved him for his kind heart. If he felt like he could put something right, there was never any stopping him."

John reached forward and gave Mary's hand a squeeze, trying to show his support. "Well, if it puts your mind at ease, I promise I won't rush the stage and try to slay Rothbart or the black swan when they make their appearances."

Mary leaned against John's shoulder and shook with laughter. "Are you sure?" She asked between little gasping breaths. "I think I'd almost like to see you try."

"I'm sure," John replied, smiling as he gently patted her back.

When they arrived at the Royal Opera House, John paid the cabbie, helped Mary out of the car, and walked with her, arm in arm, inside the building. The floor was smooth, polished wood, and a large section of the wall and ceiling were made up of elaborately framed windows, allowing in light and highlighting the intricate architecture. White pillars rose from the floor to elaborate arches. Discreet staircases led up to the second floor where elaborate white arches that looked almost like the doors to a cathedral were spaced evenly along one wall. In addition to the windows there were lights and mirrors which added a sense of grandeur and dimension to the space. It was extravagant and lovely.

When John finally turned back towards Mary he found her smiling at him, looking amused. "I take it you've never been here before?"

"No," John admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

"Well, there's a first time for everything." She began glancing around the room herself, but in a more organized, less awed fashion. "Didn't you say your patient was coming tonight as well? Do you see her?"

John cast his gaze this way and that, but he couldn't spot Nikki anywhere in the crowd. "No, I don't think so," he murmured, his eyes still searching. By chance they settled on a woman with a simple black dress, elegant for its lack of embellishments. Her honey blond hair was swept in a loose bun at the back of her head and in her arms she carried a large flat basket of roses. Her green eyes met John's and she smiled, immediately turning to walk towards him and Mary.

"Would you like to buy a flower for the lady?" she asked, as soon as she was close enough to be heard. She held her basket out slightly in front of her, showcasing the multicolored blooms within.

Mary opened her mouth to protest, but John was already reaching for his wallet and asking how much. Mary sighed softly and offered no further protest, reaching into the basket to select a bright, white rose. She brought it to her nose and inhaled. The scent was faint, which made sense. At this time of year it was probably a hot house flower, but the smell was still there. When she opened her eyes John was standing in front of her smiling, and the woman with the basket had moved on. "Thank you," she said softly, reaching out to accept the arm he was offering her. Mary was far from a traditional woman, she didn't need to be escorted by anyone, but the smile on John's face was infectious, and she was pleased to see him so happy.

"You're welcome," John replied, leading Mary up the sleek stairway. Their seats were located in the front center of the first balcony. This vantage point would allow them to clearly see the entire stage without being so far way that they would miss anything. Nikki had been very thoughtful in her selection.

Once they were seated, programs in hand, Mary leaned towards John and spoke again. "You seem very happy. Do you have a secret passion for the ballet I haven't heard about?"

John shook his head. "No, it just feels good to be out and about."

A wry smile crept over Mary's features. "Drinks at the pub with your Detective Inspector friend doesn't count as going out?"

"It does," John countered quickly, thinking of his recently renewed friendship with Greg. They'd met twice over the past three weeks. At first John had worried the conversation would center entirely on Sherlock and John's separation from him, but Sherlock hadn't even been alluded to. Even so, John had seen the silent questions in Greg's eyes, and the careful way in which he seemed to choose his words. "I guess I'm just excited to experience something new," John ventured.

Mary's smile never left her, and yet her expression became more thoughtful, knowing. John was about to ask her what she was thinking when the lights flickered, indicating the show was about to start.

The audience quieted, the lights dimmed, and the music began. The first violin note to cut the air was haunting and poignant, as if warning of the often tragic ending to this story. The instrument was not alone for long, slowly other's joined, and the orchestra began to swell with music.

John knew the story, he'd made a point of refreshing his memory before tonight so that he would have an easier time following along. He had never been able to follow a story told in music alone, as he'd heard some dedicated musicians talk about. Sherlock had tried to talk him through the idea once for a case, but the story had only come clear to John with words, and once he had them, the music seemed to fit them, not the other way around.

Ballet was a delicate and painful art form, and John appreciated the dedication and physical skill required. Many of the moves required tremendous strength and muscle tone, but the dancers limbs seemed light as they arched and lifted with the music. John was impressed at the vision the dancers created even as he winced in sympathy for their joints, especially when they danced on Pointe.

John smiled when Odette made her appearance, twirling out of the 'water' around stage, then dancing together with Prince Siegfried. He didn't know if the actors were in love, but they played their parts well. They seemed joyous and carefree, utterly oblivious to the trails that await them.

The music turned low, and sinister when Von Rothbart made his appearance, forcing the would be lovers apart. Sherlock had gone on endlessly about love being a powerful motivator for all manner of evil; it was always the first motive he explored on a murder. John thought back to his last case with Sherlock, and the brutal treatment Mrs. Werner had suffered at the hands of her husband. Sherlock had been right to focus on the husband, but not because of the presumed love between a husband and a wife, but because of the absence of the love that should have been there. In every case where Sherlock tried to make a point about love he was dealing with the absence of it or the perversion of it. It was short sighted of him really, but at least he was aware of it.

" _Not really my area... I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest I'm really not looking for anything._ "

Thankfully the intermission offered a reprieve from such dark thoughts. John stood and walked with Mary, getting some air and repeating a silent message to himself that every love story that crossed his path did _not_ need to bring his mind back to Sherlock.

Settling into his seat for the second half, John sighed and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the music, to see if he could hear the story through the music, despite all of his past failures to do so...vague themes made themselves known, but John was still grateful for his previous knowledge of the story.

Overall the music seemed to vacillate between joyful and sad. Even when the music swelled as Prince Siegfried danced with all his potential brides, who were trying to impress him, there were notes of pain, and despair. John's eyes flickered open again as a vision of Odette tried desperately to warn Prince Siegfried of the deception he faced. There was, however, no stopping Von Rothbart's scheme.

The music swelled, seeming to cry out in indignation and disbelief when the truth was finally revealed. As Prince Siegfried ran back to the lake, desperate to make things right, a wild, frantic, almost senseless hope cut through the music, and in that moment, John didn't need his previous understanding of the plot to understand. The longing, the love, and the pleading apology Prince Siegfried offered Odette was clear. The man threw himself at Odette's feet, and while at first she resisted, she could not turn him away.

Von Rothbart burst onto the stage, stirring up the waters of the lake with a terrible storm, and John was expecting a tragic ending, as was so common for this ballet. Some endings were more tragic than others. The 'best' endings often had both Odette and Prince Siegfried dying with some insinuation that they reunited in the afterlife. There were worse endings, were one lover was left alive, or where Odette was forever taken away by Von Rothbart.

John suspected that this rendition may leave Odette alive but alone when Prince Siegfried flailed in the lake and seemed about to drown, but then he rallied, made his way to shore and tore the wings off of Von Rothbart. There was a flash of light and sound, then Prince Siegfried leapt to the small cliff where Odette had been anxiously watching and caught the ballerina playing Odette, who now wore a jeweled crown instead of a feather headset, in a dramatic lift, before setting her safely on the stage. There was a brief moment of confusion while Odette looked herself over, touched her head, and realized that she was no longer a swan, before she turned and leapt into Prince Siegfried's arms as the music built into its final crescendo. The audience, John and Mary included, erupted into applause as the curtain fell closed on the reunited couple. The curtain re-opened shortly and there were more bows and further applause before the curtain fell for a final time and the lights came up.

"That was surprising," Mary said, rising from her seat.

John reached to take her arm and Mary allowed it as they made their way back into the main hall. "I thought you said this story was always tragic?" John asked.

"It usually is," Mary agreed, "This is a more modern ending, but I'm happy they chose this one. Life isn't always a happy ending, but I think people make their own tragic endings far more often than is strictly necessary."

Mary was giving him that thoughtful look again, and John didn't like it. He'd done nothing to contribute to his own misfortune. He didn't speak up, however, instead choosing to believe that Mary was thinking of her late husband. She had never talked about the details of Sean's death, and John hadn't pressed. Perhaps, under the right circumstances it could have been preventable.

The crowd was slow moving, and at the earliest opportunity John ducked them both into a small alcove where they could rest until the crowd thinned a bit. Mary shot John a thankful smile as she leaned against the cool wall, still holding his hand. She looked flushed from the heat of the crowd, but still beautiful in her evening dress. John squeezed her hand, and felt the metal of her wedding ring press into his palm. They were quite the lovesick pair. Mary had made her peace with her loss and John, well he would get there someday. Then... well that was a future too far ahead to think about yet. For now he was grateful to have Mary's friendship and her compassion. It would be foolish to consider anything else until his heart was his own again.

At length the crowd did thin, and John and Mary made their way down the steps once more. They were making their way towards the exit when a flash of light caught John's eye. He turned his head and spied Nikki, a sparkling clip in her hair. She was tucked in another small alcove, talking to someone.

"Is that your patient?" Mary asked quietly, leaning up towards John's ear to be sure he would hear her.

John nodded. "She should make a full recovery. She's very lucky. Did I tell you someone is covering her seat for her while she's healing?"

"You did," Mary confirmed. "Do you want to go say hello? That might be the person she mentioned."

John opened his mouth to reply but stopped short as Nikki's companion came into view. He stiffened, scrambling to gather his wits and rush towards the exit before he could be seen, but it was too late. Familiar light blue eyes looked up and locked him in place from across the room.

Sherlock didn't look like he'd been expecting to see John, he paled and his eyes widened with remarkable believability, but John knew firsthand the extent of Sherlock's acting abilities. Suddenly every moment of the evening, and all those leading up to it where in question. How much was an accident, and how much had been planned? This was obviously for a case, it _had_ to be. Sherlock didn't do anything but cases. He also had a habit of recruiting and manipulating people when he needed them without a second thought. John was _done_ being manipulated. He schooled his features into the best impassive mask he could muster and resumed his exit from the building at a measured pace. He wasn't going to play into Sherlock's hands, and he sure as hell wasn't going to blindly retreat. They had nothing more to say to each other.

It wasn't until they were outside, and an icy rain was pelting his face that Mary's words made it through the fog in his mind. "John, John stop! You're hurting me."

John stopped, and released Mary from the iron grip he'd held her in. "Christ, I'm sorry."

Mary lifted her arm to her chest, rubbing the abused flesh. She had to be in pain, but her expression was calm as she lifted her eyes to his. "Another two seconds and you would have dislocated my elbow." Her eyes were sad, and there was no accusation in her voice, still John felt guilty.

"I'm sorry," John repeated, running a hand through his hair. "Damn, this is the last place I expected to see _him_."

Mary's expression was both sad and thoughtful. "Do you think he's the one holding Nikki's seat for her while she recovers?"

"I don't know, probably. For the moment anyway." John covered his mouth with his hand for a moment and cursed again. "I've got to warn her. He has no qualms about manipulating people when he's working a case. I've seen him do it, he's absolutely ruthless." John was starting to pace now. "Once he's gotten whatever he wants, he'll just walk away."

"You think this is all about a case?" Mary asked calmly, too calmly for John's liking.

"Yes!" He was almost shouting as he threw his hands into the air. "It has to be! That's all he ever does. It's something with the Royal Opera House, probably, or someone connected with it. He probably saw Nikki's accident and recommended she ask for me. He probably wants to rope me into whatever scheme he's planning by playing to my sympathies." John cursed again. "I thought it was a little strange that she asked for me that night, considering I'd never treated her before, but I thought maybe she'd heard of me." John shook his head, chuckling darkly. "Turns out she'd been _sent_ for me."

"John," Mary's voice was calm and steady, her expression still sad, "You need to calm down."

John whirled to face her, pointing vehemently back the way they had come. "He'll stop at nothing to get what he wants!"

"And what do you want?"

This, finally, seemed to reach John. He took several deep breaths, and adjusted his stance, trying to release the tension that had been building. He breathed loudly through his nose, and seemed to be fighting the urge to pace again. "I want to go home," he said at last, "and I don't want to think about that sodding wanker, ever again." John's frown deepened. "But I have to speak to Nikki about him, she's trusting him with her career, and it's going to blow up in her face."

"That can wait until Monday," Mary advised.

John turned to look at her and instantly felt guilty again. Her injured hand was extended towards him, and he could already see some swelling. He frowned, his temper cooling considerably, and he hesitated a moment before asking, "Can I take a look?"

Mary nodded and stepped forward, her arm still extended. John encircled her forearm and wrist gently, putting only the barest necessary pressure on her joints as he assessed the damage. He sighed softly before pronouncing, "I think you have a sprained wrist, maybe a sprained elbow too." John raised his eyes to Mary's his face the picture of contrition. He'd never hurt a woman before, outside of combat. It made him feel sick, and reminded him of his father.

Cool fingers against his cheek started him out of his memories before they could fully take hold. Mary's calm, sympathetic gaze held his for a moment before she spoke. "We all make mistakes, John," Mary assured him, "It's how we respond to them that defines our character."

John nodded, and then leaned forward slightly until his forehead rested against Mary's. "I'm sorry." He repeated, pulling her into a gentle embrace.

"I forgive you," she replied, wrapping her arms around him as well, nestling her head against his shoulder. Her voice was still calm and for one confused moment John almost felt as though Mary were holding him, consoling _him_. He pulled back slightly and looked down at her. "Let's go home and put some ice on your arm."

Mary nodded in agreement. "We can order in some curry. I think some Monty Python's flying circus reruns will be on the telly tonight."

"That sounds lovely," John agreed, looping an arm around her shoulders as they walked away in search of a cab, banishing all thoughts of Sherlock from his mind.

* * *

Sherlock frowned in confusion as John and his companion hurried away. It wasn't John's reaction that confused him, but the woman's. She had tossed him a sympathetic look over her shoulder as she was hurried away, and she'd mouthed something to him that looked very much like, " _Sorry_."

Sorry?

What on earth did she have to be sorry for? She was a good fit for John, even though they were not yet dating. She had some Special Forces experience, that much was obvious from the way she walked and looked about the room. But she was retired now, likely because of the death of her husband. She still wore her wedding ring, but her grief was etched on her face. Yes she was a good match for John in many respects. Now that he'd seen her, Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to resist a background check, but he doubted there was really anything to be concerned about.

He turned his expression back to Nikki, who was chewing her nails and looking guilty. He'd asked her the night of the accident not to mention to John that she had seen him, and she'd been true to her word on that. She wasn't a confrontational person, nor was she the type to meddle; her own family drama's had taught her to let sleeping dragons lie. No this was a simple accident of timing. She'd informed him that she'd given John two tickets to tonight's show, and they had made a point of waiting until most of the crowd had cleared before meeting in the main hall. Sherlock had been so focused on trying _not_ to think about John that he hadn't taken any further precautions. He had his share of the blame, and truth be told Nikki wasn't really to blame at all. True to her nature she had never asked any questions about John or himself, though she had known about them both through John's blog. Nikki continued to look sad and concerned, but her gratitude and quiet disposition had prevented her from any comments or actions in regards to Sherlock's situation.

"Don't worry about it," Sherlock advised, reaching out and, with gentle pressure, easing Nikki's hand away from her mouth.

Tears filled her eyes. "But—" she began, and Sherlock cut her off.

"He enjoyed the ballet, he just…" Sherlock's expression darkened with pain when he recalled to moment his eyes had met John's. He'd felt the connection like a physical shock, and the pain on John's face was like a twist of a knife in the heart he'd spent so many years denying he had. Sherlock's entire body had ached with the need to reach out to John, to try to sooth and apologize; he'd started to shake with the denied impulse. Not twenty minutes ago Sherlock had been able to indulge himself, to beg for forgiveness through music as some of the final songs of the ballet were being performed, but Sherlock knew he could not act towards reconciliation. Not now, not ever. It was the one kind thing he could still do for John. Blinking, Sherlock forced himself back to the present moment. "He likely made some assumptions about my presence here. The next time he sees you he'll probably warn you not to trust me as your substitute."

Nikki frowned, blinking back her tears. "But…" she hesitated, not because her opinion lacked conviction, but because of the guilt she still felt. "I _do_ trust you."

Sherlock could see that she meant it, even so he felt compelled to add, "I always keep my promises." This was said not so much to assure Nikki, but to remind himself that he had promised to stay away from John Watson. With most people he would have left it at that, but with Nikki, Sherlock felt the need to add, "It's for the best that Dr. Watson and I no longer meet." Most people lacked discretion, but Nikki's disposition, and her home life had made her particularly receptive to this kind of message. She nodded, and for the first time, dared to reach out and take Sherlock's hand in hers, giving it a squeeze. She didn't understand his situation, but she would be discreet, and on top of that, she felt _sorry_ for him.

Sherlock knew he deserved no such sympathy, so he put on his best smile and suggested, "We should go; we both have early rehearsal tomorrow." Nikki spared Sherlock one long, thoughtful look, before she nodded and followed him outside into a night that felt colder and bitterer than it had to Sherlock just a few hours ago.

The Odette he had just played for may have been able to regain her humanity and her love, but John Watson would _never_ be part of his life again…never.

When they came to the corner where they usually parted ways Sherlock called his goodnight out to Nikki without pausing to turn his head or look at her. Her life experience had made Nikki very astute at observing the emotions of others, and Sherlock knew she would suspect his tears even if she never actually saw them…


	13. Painful Truths

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to sweetmarly and Brown Eyed Girl-62 for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

 **Trigger Warning: Patient death described in this chapter.**

* * *

Chapter 12: Painful Truths

John hesitated in front of the pub where he had agreed to meet Greg for what had become a weekly meeting. He winced at his own thoughts and almost turned away. A night out with a friend should _not_ feel like a business meeting…It wasn't that he wasn't grateful for Greg's friendship, or the fact that he had actually avoided talking about Sherlock; John just couldn't handle the elephant in the room anymore.

John squared his shoulders and went in, angry at himself for waiting this long. Greg and he were going to talk about Sherlock at some point, it was inevitable, and as much as the topic pained him, John Watson was not in the habit of running away from his problems.

Greg was waiting at their usual table, by the window, a little way away from the most crowded section of the pub. He smiled and waved when he saw John enter the building, then he frowned. When John sat down across from him, Greg said, "You alright, mate? You look like you're ready to fight."

John frowned and shook his head. "No, I'm not here to fight." He ran a hand through his hair, and then rested both hands on the table in front of him. "I just think we need to talk about Sherlock."

Greg's expression sobered immediately, and he nodded slowly. "Alright, what about Sherlock?"

John chuckled darkly, "How about you tell me what you already know."

Greg shrugged. "There really isn't much to know, it's like you're both pretending the other one of you doesn't exist. I know you're not living or working together anymore, but that's about it."

"What, Mycroft, didn't give you the blow by blow?" John countered, then grimaced. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

Greg waved off John's concern. "It's okay. Information, and what I do or don't know has been… an ongoing discussion between Mycroft and me." Greg sighed and looked out the window for a moment. "I was angry he let me go to work, let me call Sherlock in for a case without letting me know anything, but at the same time I've also argued with him about just how closely he watches Sherlock."

John frowned, his expression softening. "I don't want the two of you to fight about this. It's…well it's done, but I haven't seen you so happy in a long time."

Greg smiled. "We're not fighting. We did have a row, but I think Mycroft was worried about the same thing, actually. That whatever's going on between Sherlock and yourself would put strain on us."

John raised an eyebrow. "Did he actually say that?"

"What do you think?" Greg asked, pausing to take a sip from the water glass by his elbow. Once he swallowed, a fond smile crept over Greg's face and he said, "Mycroft wants so badly to control the whole world, to make everything right." Greg leaned his chin on his hand, and his elbow on the table. "I don't have the heart to tell him it's a lost cause."

"He already knows, and he doesn't believe you," John countered, with a small smile of his own.

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, you're probably right."

They were silent for a moment before John spoke again. "So, what _did_ Mycroft tell you?"

Greg sighed. "He said that Sherlock had asked you to leave because you were in love with him and, despite the fact that he loved you too, he couldn't handle it." A dark look passed over Greg's features for a moment and he shook his head. "I've pulled that idiot out of some of the worst places imaginable, especially when he was using, but I never thought he'd shoot himself in the foot this badly."

John let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Loves me? Sherlock Holmes _loves me_?" He took a long drink from one the glasses of water the waitress had left while Greg was waiting for John to arrive. "Mycroft must be losing his touch."

"I don't think he is," Greg replied softly.

John looked up and they shared a long, tense look. "You really think he's in _love_ with me?" John spat the work 'love' like it was a curse.

Greg never broke eye contact. "I really do."

John scoffed, and looked away. "You're both out of your minds. That is _not_ how you treat someone you love, Greg, and you know it."

Greg lifted his hand slightly in surrender. "I didn't say he wasn't being awful, he's really done it this time..." Greg trailed off for a moment, placing both of his hands back on the table. "I just…I've known him for a long time, and I don't think he knows _how_ to love someone properly. I really think he had himself convinced he never would fall in love. Mycroft said that Sherlock only came to grips with the truth of how he felt after you left, and I think he might be right."

"Greg, why on earth do you think that?" John replied, utterly at a loss. Mycroft had always been protected and biased when it came to his little brother, but John had thought Greg had more of a level head.

"Well, at first he was normal. Well, more irritating than normal, but normal. That didn't last long, though." Greg's gaze grew thoughtful and distant as he remembered. "He worked one case for me without you there, suspected wrongful death or even murder. That was when I sent you those first texts. He ended up uncovering this near financial disaster, and I thought he was in a mood because it turned out not to be a murder, but then he wouldn't respond to any of my calls."

John snorted derisively. "When does he ever respond? He only ever appears to deign to respond so he can look clever."

"That's what I thought at first, but Mycroft _and_ Mrs. Hudson say that's not the case this time," Greg replied.

"What, they're both spying on him now?" John asked, dubiously.

Greg shook his head. "John, you can't have lived at 221 B for all of those years without knowing that Mrs. Hudson is like a grandmother to Sherlock. She worries about him just as much as Mycroft, and she doesn't have to hack anything to check up on him."

John shrugged begrudgingly.

"They both told me that he spent _days_ moping on the sofa," Greg pressed on.

"I don't see how that's so unusual," John replied, finally reaching for and drinking the last of his water.

"Maybe not when he's on a case, and not when he's using drugs, but there was no case, and as far as Mycroft knows there were no drugs either. No experiments, no nothing. He was just…." Greg shrugged, at a loss for words.

Anxiety for Sherlock's health prickled along John's spine at the thought that Sherlock could be using again, maybe so secretively that even Mycroft didn't know. This was followed by a hot swell of resentment that Sherlock's health still concerned him at all. Sherlock certainly didn't deserve or appreciate such concern.

"The next time I saw him," Greg continued, "he was calling _me_ into a case. A domestic violence case with nothing particularly unusual about it. As far as I can tell he was just walking down the street, apparently Mrs. Hudson had convinced him to get the shopping for her, when he deduced what was happening and manipulated the situation until the woman was willing to press charges."

John shook his head. "So what? He got bored and found some amusement for himself. How is that so much different than shooting my gun at the wall? He causes a little trouble, gets attention for it, and in this case some recognition as well."

Greg hesitated for a moment before adding, "I think he solved that case for _you_ , John."

John's reaction was immediate, and almost violent. "For me?! What the hell does that case have to do with me? This is the first I've heard about it, so I obviously don't know these people. He never tried to tell me about it, not that I would have listened to him in the first place. How on earth, could this possibly be for me?!"

"I think he feels guilty. I've seen it a million times on cases, so have you. Someone does something wrong, they try to overcompensate by doing something nice, or doing something their loved one would approve of. Granted you and I tend to see the twisted side of that more often than not, but it's still human nature."

John's expression grew cold and stony. He spoke in a measured, but clipped tone. "Is this _your_ opinion, or is it Mycroft's?"

Greg sighed and rested his forehead in one hand for a moment, then he looked up and met John's steely gaze with a much softer expression. "Both at this point. Mycroft and I have been talking about this a lot since you moved out."

"Since I was _forced_ out," John growled.

Greg held his hands up in surrender, "Yes, fine. Since you were forced out, which I still think is the stupidest thing Sherlock has ever done." Greg took another breath as if steadying himself, and folding his hands in front of him on the table. "Sherlock is brilliant, John, that's always been the problem. He's too brilliant for his own good. He's also _human_ , despite what he might do to convince you otherwise. I've known him a long time and I've never seen him look at anyone, the way he looks at _you_."

John's expression hardened further, rebuffing any tenderness Greg's words had contained. "And I'm supposed to, what? Forgive him? Just like that?"

"No, no," Greg shook his head emphatically. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do; I'm not sure I would forgive him, if I were in your place. I'm just trying to understand what happened, and letting you know everything I know or think I know, like you asked."

John leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. "Sherlock is _not_ in love with me."

Greg shrugged, his hands still slightly raised in a gesture of surrender. "If you say so."

"You and Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson, and anyone else who bevies this lunacy have gone utterly mad," John continued emphatically.

Greg sighed and lowered his hands to the table once more. "I'm sorry that he hurt you."

John shrugged and forced himself to make eye contact, "What's done is done. There's really not much to tell you that you don't already know. I moved out, I have a new job at Charing Cross Hospital, and I live with a woman named Mary."

"Anything going on there?" Greg asked, sipping his own water.

John shook his head. "No, we're just flatmates, and I'll thank you, to stop insinuating that we're something we're not, before she gets an urge to jump off a building too."

Greg chuckled. "He didn't jump to get people to stop talking about the two of you. If anything it only made the talk worse."

John smiled ruefully. "All the same, I don't want to give her any ideas. I could do with something simple for a change."

Greg nodded. "As long as you're happy."

"I am," John assured Greg, and it almost wasn't a lie. His brief encounter with Sherlock aside…he was content. His job was interesting without being life threatening, Mary was good company, and there were never any body parts in the kitchen. Everything was fine…

John's phone trilled and he glanced down at it, frowning when he saw the name of his supervisor, Eric Brown, flash across the screen. "I'm sorry, this is work," he muttered to Greg as he picked up the phone.

Greg waved off John's concern. He was hardly one to judge considering how many work calls he took every day, and neither of them could hold a candle to Mycroft. Greg watched John speak quietly into the phone, a frown spreading over his face, and remembered the looks Rebecca used to give him when the Yard called. His ex had claimed that their marriage had fallen apart because Greg was always working and never made time for her. It wasn't that he hadn't loved her, he just loved his job too. Things were better with Mycroft. They both knew there were no guarantees that a night out or in wouldn't be interrupted, and so they made the best of what moments they did have.

"I'll be right there," John announced into the phone with a serious expression, before hanging up and shoving the phone back into his pocket. "There's been a serious pileup on The Highway, they need extra hands tonight."

Greg nodded, his expression equally grim. "Go then, they need you. It's a good thing we never got around to ordering drinks."

John nodded his agreement. "I'll call you."

"You'd better," Greg replied, waiving after him.

As soon as he was outside, John phoned Mary.

"Hey, shouldn't you still be having drinks with Greg?" her voice was warm and welcoming, if somewhat concerned.

"Hospital just called," John explained, lifting his arm to hail a cab. "There's been a big accident on The Highway. They need some extra hands tonight. I'm heading over from the pub; I just wanted to let you know I probably won't be home tonight."

"You do what you need to do, and keep me posted," Mary instructed, sounding less concerned now, and more focused. "I'll have breakfast waiting for you when you get home."

John smiled as he got into a cab, and gave them the address for Charing Cross hospital. Once the cab was on its way he lifted his phone back to his ear. "You don't have to do that. You have the day off tomorrow, don't you?"

"And I've worked as many double shifts as you have, doctor," Mary replied, adamant in her decision. "I'll be fine."

John's smile widened. Sherlock would _never_ have offered to do something so simple and so meaningful. He mentally shook himself, forcing all thoughts out of his mind. Sherlock did not deserve another instant of consideration, and he would convince his mind of that, one day. "Thank you, I'll give you a call when I'm heading home."

* * *

The night was long and ugly, but not for the reasons John had originally suspected. It wasn't just the massive wreck, it was the sheer amount of patients in general. Some nights in accident and emergency were almost dead, others were bursting at the seams. This would have been a nightmare night even without the wreck. All the gurneys were full, and more had been pulled from storage than John even knew they had. It wasn't any one thing, aside from the wreck. There were the usual mix of stupid accidents, random illnesses, and all manner of other things. There was simply more of it than normal.

As soon as he was in the door John was put on triage. Many of the young interns balked at the idea of one of their superiors being given such a 'menial' job, but John knew that was their inexperience showing. During nights like tonight, there was no job more important. When resources were stretched thin and stakes were high, the wrong decision could cost someone their life. The doctors treating would treat the patients John marked as the most urgent first, and the other cases would wait accordingly.

The most serious cases weren't always as easy to spot as one would assume. Lots of blood and compound fractures were always distressing, but internal bleeding and tears could be even more deadly, and all but silent in their approach. For hours John assessed, pushed, prodded, and marked his patients in severity. The worst ones were taken quickly, but the next worse weren't that much better off, and even the other staff on triage occasionally had to pull together to work on a patient and buy precious time. Put pressure on this wound here, send someone back for butterfly band aides or medications that were desperately needed. They were a team, but at the end of the day John was in charge, and his word would decide whether they converged to address a patient more immediately, or let their triage judgment hold and wait for the rest of the team in Accident and Emergency to clear space.

When John finally came up for air, it was almost four in the morning. There had been more than one hairy moment, but in the end every last person had been triaged. More cases would come in, they always did, but it seemed as though the worst was over.

John was leaning against a wall for a moment, catching his breath, and surveying the crowd, when he saw someone walking towards him. They weren't rushed, so John made no move to push off the wall and into action, he just looked up, and smiled when he recognized Eric.

"Hey," Eric greeted him, as soon as he was in hearing range. "Thank you for coming in tonight."

"You're welcome," John replied. "Thank you for calling me."

"You're the first person that came to mind when I heard how many trauma cases were being routed to us. You don't blink under pressure."

John smiled faintly, pleased at the compliment. "You're no slouch yourself."

Eric shrugged. "It makes a big difference when there are good physicians organizing the efforts of the interns."

John nodded, his gaze turning back out to the crowd. "We shouldn't keep them waiting too long."

"I suppose," Eric sighed regretfully. "But John, take a few days off after this. I know what a big push this is for the team and I don't want any of you burning out."

Normally John would have protested. He knew his own limits, thank you very much. Eric was good to remind him though, not all doctors knew when to take a break. Maybe a few days off would be good for him. He _had_ been working pretty hard since he'd started here. He was settled now, and there was more to life than work.

John fought back a sigh. He worked, he'd been out with Mary, and he'd started talking to Lestrade again, but no matter what he did nothing seemed to _fit_. It was like this new life he'd forged for himself was a sweater that had been through the dryer when it wasn't supposed to. It bunched and pulled in all the wrong places despite his efforts to find comfort in it.

Any protest or acceptance John had been about to voice to Eric's offer died on his lips when the next gurney was rushed inside. There was a thin young woman on the gurney, and the first responders surrounding her looked grim. One was pushing the gurney, one was actually on the gurney, straddling her chest to deliver the quick, desperate compressions of CPR, and the third man had one arm pulling the gurney and the other securely wrapped around a CPR mask, waiting for the break in compressions so he could force more air into his patients lungs.

"What have we got?" John asked, running up to them, Eric right behind him.

"Caucasian female, 21. Her friends found her unresponsive in the loo at a club, suspected overdose. We administered one dose of Narcan on the way, and one dose of epi, no response" one of the men stated, his voice loud and clipped while one of his team mates worked on the patient.

"I need Narcan, point four milligrams!" John called over his shoulder to Janet, a nurse who had joined them by the gurney. The gurney was lowered and Eric moved to take over compressions. Another nurse, Kevin, hovered nearby until Eric paused in compressions so that the patient could be intubated. Eric was technically John's supervisor, but John had already taken control of the team, and it wasn't unusual for a supervisee to be in command during an emergency, when there wasn't time to define roles. It would only waste time to argue about rank. Every resident was drilled in protocols, and following the doctor taking lead, unless said doctors' orders could cause medical harm, was one of those protocols.

Another nurse, this time John didn't know there name, stood at the ready with the defibrillator. They were looking intensely at the machine as it charged before barking out, "Clear!" The team pulled back from the patient as one while the nurse situated the paddles and administered a shock.

There was a brief pause before John pressed his stethoscope into his patient's chest, listening for a pulse... It was there, but it was weak and irregular. There didn't seem to be any breath sounds either. John reach forward and lifted his patient's eyelids one by one with his thumb, and shined a light into them. "Pupils _are_ reactive," he confirmed. The pupils were nearly pinpoints to begin with, but the movement John did see confirmed that this patient had at least a fighting chance.

"Narcan, doctor Watson," Janet called, holding the filled syringe for John to take.

John snatched the syringe from her hand and administered the medicine. He watched and listened with his stethoscope, but saw no response. "Resume CPR. Janet, another point four milligrams of Narcan, one milligram of epi."

"Yes doctor," Janet replied, swiftly reaching for the medicines while his other team members worked on the patient.

There was another cry of, "Clear!" and another shock was administered. John watched his young patient's back bow and strain in response.

Again they all waited and watched...no response. His patient's face was turning gray, and John knew they were running out of time. John quickly administered a second dose of medication before ordering, "Resume CPR. Janet, point four milligrams of Narcan and one milligram of epi."

"Yes doctor," Janet replied again, preparing the next dose.

John waited for respirations to be given before ordering his team to pull back, and administering the medications once more. He pulled up his stethoscope and listened. No respirations and now...no pulse. John cursed softly. "Calling time of death," he lifted his eyes to the clock on the wall, "4:38am."

Immediately the energy shifted. Janet and Kevin focused one cleanup, and Eric stepped away from the gurney with an exhausted sigh. "You don't give up easy, do you?"

John shook his head. "I wanted to give her every possible chance."

Eric nodded slowly. "Some would argue that last dose wasn't strictly warranted."

"Are you reprimanding me?" John asked, turning to face Eric more directly.

Eric shook his head, "No, it was your decision to make. I would have chosen differently, perhaps, but it's always a judgment call, and I'm glad you fought so hard for her." Eric sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "I'll mention that when I tell her parents."

"You know them?" John asked, his expression softening.

"Somewhat. Her father has been a strong investor in this hospital every year, especially since his daughter started having trouble with heroin."

John nodded slowly. It was a common and even understandable thing that parents who lost a child would lash out and try to seek revenge or justice in any way they could, even if there wasn't a true enemy to unleash their anger on. "Do you want me to talk to them?" John wouldn't be intimidated by their anger, he'd seen grief too many times before. He knew he could weather that storm.

Eric shook his head. "No, thanks. I'll do it." There was a long pause before he added, quietly, "I'm worried they might call for a full investigation not only into the death of their daughter, Emily, but into the hospital in general."

"Why? Investigations are tense and slow things down, but in the end, if there's nothing to hide, there's no reason to worry." John knew he hadn't seen anything questionable...but hospitals were big places

Eric sighed and turned, almost as if he was going to start pacing, then stopped himself. "There's nothing I know of, nothing in our statistics that stands out, but...something feels...off. I can't put my finger on it, but... It's things like Emily, her pupils were reactive when you checked, then we lost her heartbeat. I know it can happen, it just doesn't feel right." Eric shook his head and shifted his weight to his other foot. "It's probably nothing, never mind. It's been a long night." Eric started to turn away then turned back, "First shift is coming in soon. Go home, get some rest."

John nodded. "You too."

Eric smiled in a humorless way that told John it would be a lot longer until he could rest. That was the nature of being in charge. John understood it, but he still hoped Eric wouldn't push himself too hard. Every leader needed to take time for themselves or they wouldn't be the only ones who suffered.

John stretched and yawned, grateful that the end was in sight at last. He rolled his head to stretch his neck muscles and his eyes fell on the sharps container, and the bin that held used medicine containers for appropriate disposal. Emily, now that he knew her name, had been in dire straits when she arrived, but she'd still had a chance... What if it wasn't _only_ the drugs she'd taken that had killed her?

The suspicion grew inside John like an itch, but he shoved it away. He had no proof. He wasn't Sherlock, he wasn't even a detective. He needed to let other people do their jobs, while he focused on his. He was a doctor. He healed. He didn't go around sticking his nose in places where it did not belong. If there was an obvious risk or threat to patient safety, he would be obligated to report it. Even if there was only a suspicion, but a suspicion with evidence to back it up, he should report it. This…this was nothing, a phantom. More likely than not it was a misguided effort by his subconscious to find a case and restore a sense of normalcy. Giving in to the urge would not help, he need to allow time for himself to adjust to this new…normal.

Begrudgingly, and reluctantly, John moved away from the examination area where he had been loitering. The main crisis of the night might be over, but there were still many patients that needed tending to. John knew he was certainly not the kind of doctor who foisted his work off onto other people.

John focused on his patients. Or at least he tried to. He examined burns, broken bones, assessed for possible concussions, and gave recommendations on whether patients should be admitted or not. Still, the examination area where Emily had died was always in the back of his mind. He would dispose of medications and almost startle when he realized the bin was not as full as it had been before… Of course the bins John saw hadn't changed, it's just that they weren't the specific bin and sharp container that he was thinking about.

At last, dawn broke, and a weak, gray light started to creep into Accident and Emergency through the windows. It was time to go home, and yet John found himself once again hovering on the edge of the examination area where Emily had died… He and the other staff had done an excellent job overnight, and there was no patient in this particular area at the moment. There was just the bin and the sharps container…

John blinked and shook his head. Of course there were many other medical supplies and instruments neatly lined up along the wall and in drawers. He was allowing his imagination to get the better of him. He turned to go, intending to head towards the break room, when the memory of Emily's pupils flashed before his eyes. They had been reactive. She had been alive…and then she had died. It happened, far more often with overdose victims than people like to talk about. He should leave. Mary was waiting. He should call her.

Turning back around John stepped forward and collected both the bag for the bin, making sure to replace it with a fresh one, and the sharps container. He would need a fresh sharps container from the supply room. The bag and the sharps container were easy to carry with one hand, so John held them low and slightly in front of him. Holding them behind himself would make them look more conspicuous, but this way it didn't look like he was making an effort to hide them _and_ they would be less noticeable because they were further away from eye level.

He walked straight towards the supply closet and deposited his items on a bare spot on the shelf in the back bottom left hand corner. He had to crouch to reach the area. Then he stood, retrieved a fresh sharps container, and made his way back to the examination area he had just left.

The first shift staff were coming on now, and the hallways were crowded with arriving staff and staff heading home. As he closed the distance between himself and the examination area that was missing a sharps container, John caught sight of Eric speaking with some of the oncoming staff, alerting them to need to know items that would carry over from the night shift. Reflexively John smiled and lifted his free hand to wave. Eric waved back and called out, "You're heading home, right?"

John nodded, "Right, just after I drop this off," he gestured with the empty sharps container.

After the new sharp container was placed John wandered over to lost and found, and scooped up a large black back pack that had been there for several days. Again he carried it low and in front of him. No one stopped him or commented. John slipped once more into the supply closet, and quickly knelt to sequester the full bin bag and sharps container into the backpack he had stolen. Once that was done, he shrugged out of his white doctor's coat, and pulled on the back pack. Folding his white coat discreetly over one arm John made his way to the staff room to hang up his white coat and retrieves his all-weather coat for the trip home.

As he stepped outside of Charing Cross Hospital, John was acutely aware of the backpack he carried, and the items contained within it.

He was most definitely going to hell.

* * *

Mary was just setting two steaming plates of pancakes on the table when John entered their flat. She looked up and smiled at him.

"There you are. I thought I told you to call ahead. Lucky for you that my guess was accurate." She paused then, and started to walk towards him. "John? Are you alright?"

He should have called her, but he hadn't. He should have called Molly, or Greg, but he hadn't done that either. He'd wrestled with a mountain of doubt and indecision until his feet had finally carried him home.

"John?" Mary repeated, this time with a firm grip and shake of his shoulder.

John blinked, and licked his lips. "I just stole used medical supplies. And this backpack."

Mary blinked back at him and instead of tensing, as he had expected, she seemed to relax. Her gaze caught his and searched it, gently. "Why?"

John took a breath. "I think something's wrong with some of the medication we used last night. There was a young woman, a girl really, she overdosed. I think we should have been able to revive her."

"And you're going to have the bottles and syringes tested?" Mary asked.

Slowly, John nodded. "I was hoping I could convince a friend at Barts to do it." He hoped Molly would. Her tests would be able to put his mind to rest, and he could try to forget this whole thing. Maybe even plan a vacation. He couldn't possibly be right. If he was right…if he was right he would have to go to Sherlock… Subtle evils that no one else could see or catch were his specialty. But no, he had to be wrong, and he needed proof before he could let it go.

Mary leaned up on her toes and kissed John's check, shocking him out of his reverie. "Thank you for coming to get me, I'll get my coat."

John's eyes followed her movements. If he didn't know better he'd say she looked, excited…"

"I broke the law, you know," John reminded her.

Mary shrugged. "If you thought your supervisor would investigate it, you would've brought it to him. And if you're wrong, it's a victimless crime. I'm sure Barts can dispose of the medical supplies just as well as Charing Cross can."

John's gaze shifted to the table. "What about breakfast?" he asked.

"Leave it," Marry encouraged, ushering John back out the door. "We can grab food out if we're hungry, and I can clean it up when we get back."

John blinked at her as she led him out into the hallway, not sure if he should be pleased or worried by her enthusiasm. In the end he decided to be grateful for her company, and let the rest fall where it may.

* * *

"You want me to what?" Molly eyed the bag John held out to her dubiously.

"I want you to test them." John repeated. "Specifically, I want you to test the bottles that should have held Narcan, to see if anything is off, and if it matches what's in the syringes."

Molly continued eyeing the bag for a few more moments, then lifted her gaze to John, then over to Mary, then back to John. "Is this….? Are you….? …John you know what this looks like."

"I know," he agreed, "Believe me I know. I just… prove me wrong, Molly, okay? I need to know before I can walk away from this. Someone died today, and I need to be sure that nothing I did was the cause of it." Again John gestured with the bag, beseeching her with his eyes.

Molly hesitated for a long moment; so long that John thought she would tell him to leave. She had every right to. This was technically illegal, and he wasn't about to badger and manipulate her like Sherlock always had. At last she nodded, and reached her hand out for the bag. "Okay."

"Thank you, Molly," John said as he passed the bag over to her.

"This _isn't_ going to be a habit, John," Molly stated emphatically as she took the bag from him.

John nodded. "First and last time, I understand."

He watched Molly turn and walk away before he turned back to Mary. Mary gave him a tight lipped smile and murmured, "Now we wait."

It was a long, agonizing wait. John knew the testing was extensive, and that it would take time. It wasn't that he wasn't prepared for the wait, it was that each minute, each second seemed unnaturally long, and each moment was filled with doubt.

What if this happened again? Sherlock was always finding trouble in the most unlikely places. What if John started jumping at shadows and seeing cases where there weren't any? Did he really miss Sherlock that much? No. Impossible. He hated that he even still had feelings for that monster, and he couldn't wait until they faded away to nothing.

This was madness. He never should have come here. He was wasting time. His time. Molly's time. Even Mary's time. He should not have given in to his suspicions. He could lose his job over this if anyone ever found out, and where would he be then? He needed _distance_ from this _madness_ , hadn't he been telling himself that for _months_ now? He'd moved, he'd gotten new work, he'd started talking to old friends again, and instead of giving things a chance to settle down and start to feel normal he'd gone and stirred up trouble where there wasn't any to begin with, just because he missed that undeserving, selfish, cold hearted bastard…

"Don't forget to breathe." The words were soft, and as he heard them John was aware of Mary's hand on his, gently squeezing.

John blinked and looked over at Mary. "I'm sorry for dragging you out here."

Mary smiled wryly and said, "It was something you needed to do, and you couldn't have kept me away after I knew what you were up to."

John bracketing her hand between both of his, and squeezed back. "Thank you." He didn't know why Mary was so patient or so unflappable, but he was very grateful.

"You're welcome," she replied warmly.

They should go, John decided. Maybe Mary was right, and this was something he had to do, but that didn't mean he couldn't walk away. He had every right to. His life had been turned upside down enough. It was time to leave, and this time he wouldn't look back, no matter how sorely he was tempted.

John stood, and Mary stood with him, looking slightly concerned. John opened his mouth to state his intentions, and to thank her for her kindness in indulging him, but all those words died on his lips when the door to the lab swung open.

John looked up, his eyes caught Molly's sorrowful gaze and her pale complexion and he _knew_. Before she'd moved or made any attempt to speak, John _knew_ his suspicions had been right. She'd found something, something damning, and now he really would have to do something about it.

John licked his lips, dread settling icy cold, deep in his abdomen. "What was it?" He asked, when Molly was finally close enough to hear.

"Morphine," Molly said, holding out an empty bottle in a clear plastic bag, with the Narcan label still clearly visible. "Strong, hospital grade morphine."

John held out his hand, drawing in a quick breath when he felt the weight of the bottle settle into it. This would be the anchor that dragged him back down, because the weight of his own personal pains would not be as heavy as the weight of his conscience if he did nothing. This bottle and its contents meant only one thing:

He would have to go back to Sherlock, only this time, he would be a client...


	14. Romance, Regret, Revenge

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to Guest 1, Guest 2, Brown Eyed Girl-62, and sweetmarly for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

* * *

Chapter 13: Romance, Regret, Revenge

Mary came with him. It hadn't been discussed or planned. John had simply looked up from the bottle Molly had handed him and shared a look with Mary that decided everything. Perhaps John should have argued, but he couldn't make himself want to. Mary was a good friend and it felt right to have this connection to his new life follow him back to visit the ghosts of his old life. John didn't want to go back, but now he had to, and Mary could be an anchor for him, a point of focus to prevent any foolish temptations.

John turned back to Molly, his fingers closing around the vial she had tested. He quickly sequestered the damning bottle away in his coat pocket. Molly still looked pale and drawn, because she knew what her findings meant for all of them. "Thank you for your help, Molly," John murmured.

Molly's mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments, as if unsure of what to say, before she finally settled on, "You're welcome, John. Good luck." John nodded and turned to follow Mary out of the building.

John and Mary made their way quickly through the streets of London, zeroing in on 221 B Baker Street. John didn't stop, didn't slow, and didn't hesitate. He wasn't going to give this encounter any more meaning than it deserved.

Sherlock saw them approaching by accident. He had been standing close to the window, practicing. Never mind that he knew every piece of Swan Lake by heart, never mind that he had rehearsal later today before tonight's performance; there was solace in the music, at least for him. He'd had to be picker with the cases he selected from Lestrade, and any experiments he tried, while Nikki's arm was healing. For the first time in his life he had a regular schedule he was willingly adhering to, and he intended to keep his word. It was… strange.

There was a tedium in the rhythm of his days, but there was also a comfort there. He was neither rude, nor welcoming to Nikki, and yet she was persistently cheerful, thankful, and trusting towards him. She considered Sherlock to be a friend and Sherlock wasn't sure how to react. She would heal and resume her career, and they would likely never see each other again after that, and yet he could never muster the effort to point this out to her, so he let it be. It was what it was, and when it was over, there would always be more cases.

Since his agreement with Nikki, Sherlock had not had the time to hack Charing Cross Hospital's security cameras and watch John's shifts as much as he had previously been doing. As such, it was a complete surprise when John, and his female flatmate, whom Sherlock now knew went by the name 'Mary,' rounded the corner and made straight for 221 B. They were coming for him, they had a case, and John was _not_ pleased about it.

The bow fell from Sherlock's fingers as he watched them cross the street, his chest constricting with acute pain as they disappeared beneath the window, and entered the building. John was coming for him. He was still furious, still hurting, but he was pushing all of his personal feelings aside for the safety of others. It was written all over his face and, admittedly, so very like John. He was very kind…he'd certainly been too kind to Sherlock.

Sherlock gently placed his violin down on the desk, and bent to retrieve the bow. John would have been in the room already if Mrs. Hudson hadn't waylaid him at the foot of the stairs; Sherlock could hear them talking now, but he knew John wouldn't be detained long enough. Sherlock had never needed warning to brace himself before, but now he was utterly off his guard. Sherlock only had enough time to turn around before John burst through the door to 221 B.

Their eyes locked and the air charged.

A moment of tense silence passed before John's features twisted with distaste. "Typical, you're not even dressed." Technically inaccurate, Sherlock was dressed in his night clothes and robe, as he had been so many times before when John was still part of the comings and goings of 221 B…

Sherlock swallowed thickly. He hoped his face wouldn't make his inner turmoil obvious, but for the first time in a very long time, he wasn't sure. He _didn't_ have complete control…"Hello John." His voice was soft, even to his own ears, but John didn't seem to be listening for a response. John stalked over to the chair clients normally used, forgoing the sofa. He didn't want to be comfortable; he wanted to be on edge. There was no trust in Sherlock anymore, only in his abilities.

Sherlock stepped forward and settled into his own chair. He didn't think he was slow, but his movements felt fragile.

 _John._

After so many long months John was _here_ , real, in front of him. Sherlock didn't think he'd ever have this opportunity again. John wasn't here in friendship, naturally, a very different emotion was burning in his eyes. The feelings John held for him weren't gone, merely hardened and buried.

Sherlock folded his hands in his lap, interlocking his fingers to minimize the shaking. He knew what he'd done to John, but it was different, and much more powerful to see the effects of his actions etched so strongly in John's features…

Blinking, Sherlock forced himself to focus on John. He was here for a case. He was here reluctantly, but he was _here,_ and Sherlock wasn't about to deny him. That was one of the reasons Sherlock had never tried to see John before …there was very, very little that he could deny John now…

John hadn't started speaking yet, he'd meant to, but he was wrestling with his own demons. Seeing Sherlock again was different than he thought it would be. He was still angry, still hurt, but most of his present anger wasn't because of what Sherlock had done, but because of his own concern which had risen sharply when he saw the state Sherlock was in. Sherlock had always been thin, but he was nearly gaunt now, and his face had lost almost all of its color. John's first impulse had been to check Sherlock's blood pressure and order a feast from the curry shop on the corner... but that wasn't what he'd come here for. Sherlock's wellbeing shouldn't be John's concern anymore; Sherlock had made it abundantly clear he didn't _want_ John's emotions interfering with his work.

John forced himself to reach into his coat pocket and retrieve the damned bottle that had started this little excursion. It was still encased in the bag Molly had placed it in back at Barts. John withdrew the whole package and tossed it at Sherlock. Sherlock caught it, naturally, but his movements were a touch less graceful than usual. John clenched his teeth tightly together to fight the impulse to ask Sherlock if he was alright. The pressure of his tensed muscles was giving John a headache. This whole _thing_ was giving him a headache.

Sherlock scanned the bag in his hands, from Barts. John had been to see Molly, likely to have her examine this bottle. The label said Narcan, so John had been working with a patient who had overdosed last night, or was presumed to have overdosed. Something about the patient care had not gone as planned; the patient had to be dead. John had lost patient's before but the abnormalities must have made him suspicious enough to take this bottle to have it tested.

Sherlock's eyes flittered down to the black backpack resting at John's feet. He'd taken more than just this bottle, and the tremor in his fingers said that John was unsettled by how easy it had been to steal the evidence. It had been almost second nature, which had reminded him of Sherlock…

John's face was drawn tight, and the circles under his eyes spoke of a long night. Sherlock had already known that John hadn't slept in over 30 hours by observing his gait and coloring, now Sherlock knew that John had been called in to work an unexpected shift at the hospital. Sherlock's cab had been diverted last night because of a large accident, that same accident was likely the reason John had been called in.

Sherlock's gaze slipped over to John's eyes, and he faltered in his deductions. John's slightly unfocused gaze spoke of his fatigue, but the set of his jaw showed he wasn't feeling it as much as he would otherwise. He was running off of adrenaline…and pain. The injustice of a wrongful death was weighing heavily on John's mind, warring with the complications of having to approach Sherlock for help, when Sherlock was the _last_ person John wanted to see.

The set of John's eyes told Sherlock that John had a headache, and his long fingers twitched with the suppressed desire to reach out and sooth. He almost started when small pale fingers _did_ close around John's shoulder and squeezed gently to offer comfort. Sherlock's eyes trailed up the fingers to the arm and the shoulder, and finally the face of Mary Morstan, or so she called herself currently. Sherlock had been thorough in his research. She was a retired special ops agent. She'd worked for many different people and countries before retiring after the death of her husband. Her real name was Rosamund. She had retired shortly after the death of her husband, Sean.

Sherlock's eyes locked with Mary's, and he was surprised by what he read there. She was behind John, clearly showing her allegiance, but her eyes were sad, a sadness directed towards _Sherlock_. She liked John, but she viewed him as taken. She might not know the whole story between himself and John, but she knew enough and was resolved to see them together, a misguided sentiment likely springing from her own status as a widow. This explained the 'Sorry' she had mouthed at him as John pulled her away during their last encounter.

Sherlock looked away, unwilling to see any more of Mary's opinions on her face. She believed she had good intentions but time would prove her wrong. John and he were reunited for one case, that was it. One last game… This was exactly why he had pushed emotions away, they made everything so _messy_.

Sherlock strove to refocus his mind on deduction… It was possible John's dead patient had been a victim of the crash… but doubtful. Overdose wouldn't be suspected until blood panels came back, and with the accident as bad as it was, they'd be more likely to have died of their injuries, or it would have been suspected that they died of internal bleeding until the labs confirmed the overdose. Such an outcome would be upsetting to John, because he cared, but neither would have resulted in the use of Narcan.

Sherlock looked again at the bottle in his hand. If this was a crucial piece of evidence, then it was not the Narcan it declared itself to be. He steeled himself, then looked back at John. "What is it?" Sherlock knew his voice was still too soft. He wasn't obvious, John wasn't likely to notice, but Mary already had…

"Morphine." John's reply was clipped, but it was all Sherlock needed. This was the missing piece he'd been searching for, all those weeks ago.

Sherlock turned his gaze back to the bottle because it was easier to look at it then John's tumultuous expression. This would be upsetting to John. It was already upsetting to Sherlock, they'd lost so much time… "There's always something," Sherlock murmured, turning the bottle over in his hands.

"Sherlock, we don't have time for theatrics," John's voice quavered with restrained anger. "People are _dying_."

"Yes, and your patient was not the first." Sherlock couldn't help himself, he knew it was a bad idea for so many reasons, but he looked back at John anyway. His former flatmate was turning a bright shade of red and rapidly preparing to shout at him. Sherlock wasn't intimidated by the thought, but shouting would only make John's headache worse. "The first case I worked after…" Sherlock coughed and shifted in his seat. He needed to focus. He adopted what John had dubbed his 'thinking pose.' "It was a man named Mr. Wallingford. He owned a prominent investment banking firm that recently underwent a massive reorganization."

"I heard about that on the news," Mary piped up, squinting as she gathered her thoughts. "Were you at the press conference?"

Sherlock nodded. Mary's memory and observation were as sharp as he thought they were. "Only under duress." He confessed. "Lestrade called me to investigate the possibility of murder, unfortunately it was just bad business. That's all I could find at the time anyway."

"What does this have to do with my patient?" John asked tersely.

Sherlock met John's eyes, and wished all over again that he hadn't. There was so much pain there, and most of it was _his_ fault. Sherlock gave himself a mental shake. He had to focus on the case. It was the last and only thing he'd be able to do for John. "Mr. Wallingford died in the care of Charing Cross Hospital, while he was recovering from a routine bypass. It could have been murder, but I never found a lead solid enough to build a case." Sherlock lifted the bottle he still held and gestured with it. "I imagine your patient's death could have been just as explainable, except for this."

John looked at the bottle and nodded, slowly. "So we're dealing with a serial killer." As his gaze shifted back to Sherlock's impassive face John's expression hardened suddenly. "You must be thrilled," he said flatly.

"John!" Mary admonished.

John whirled to look at Mary. "What?! It's exactly what I heard when I first met him, I just didn't want to pay attention to it." He turned back and gestured violently at Sherlock, "He _gets off_ on murders, especially serial killers!"

"Technically inaccurate," Sherlock murmured. He fell silent when John's face started to curl into an ugly scowl.

"So, you've been on this case for a while," John accused, his voice still harsh. "What have you got?"

"Not enough data," Sherlock replied, his voice still quiet. "After I cleared Mr. Wallingford's family and business associates, I started looking into Charing Cross Hospital, but I saw nothing that seemed significantly unusual. There's always a chance someone could actually achieve subtlety as opposed to most criminals' barely concealed efforts, but before you came to me I had no proof."

"So it's one of the staff," John surmised.

"Most likely," I had started to review staff files when I found that you were now working there."

John's eyebrows creased. "And what? That stopped you? Were you so determined _never_ to see me again that you _dropped_ a case?" John was no longer yelling, but the decreased volume did nothing to soften the hard edge in his voice.

Sherlock swallowed. He was _not_ about to admit he'd been spying on John through the security cameras. He wasn't trying to protect any personal pride, he just didn't want to upset John any more than he already had. Instead he spoke around the truth, a method that was so often effective because people were prone to project their own preconceived interpretations upon what they heard. "I... I became distracted."

"Right, whatever case you started working at the Royal Opera House. How's that going? All wrapped up or was that one a flop too?"

"John!" Mary admonished again, but no one paid her any attention. John was too angry, or at least he was trying to be. Other emotions kept trying to edge in and the only way he could keep them at bay was to focus on his anger and fuel it. Sherlock saw John's inner battle, and did nothing to influence it. John had every right to be angry. Whatever his own feeling were...he had no right to attempt reconciliation. He had done everything he could to stay away from John because he hadn't trusted himself. Even now, he should throw John out and work the case without him, leave John to foster a deeper relationship with Mary, who had a very good chance of making John happy. But he couldn't. John was here, and Sherlock knew he was damned because he couldn't make John leave; it was everything he could do to fight his impulses to sooth John. Now that the dam had broken, he couldn't force his feelings back. They surged in his mind, one impulse warring with another. Sooth John. Can't, it would only hurt him more. Protect John, keep your distance. He needed to focus on the case.

"Our best chance would be to examine motive," Sherlock forced himself to say, looking at the bottle in his hand I have access to the employee files, which will help gather evidence for any possible profiles."

"When in doubt about motive, its best to start with the three R's," Mary said, stepping beside, then slightly in front of John as though her physical presence could prevent him hurling insults at Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted his eyes to Mary's, forcibly ignoring the sympathy he saw in them. There was little else to go on, so it was as good a place to start as any.

"The three R's?" John asked, directing his question entirely to Mary.

Mary's gaze, however, never wavered from Sherlock as she explained. "Romance, regret, and revenge. Romance is the most common motivation for some of the most heinous crimes, but I think we can rule that out in this case, given the disparity in his targets."

"That morphine dressed as Narcan could have been given to anyone," John agreed, "That's a bad practice if you're after a specific person."

"Not if you're trying to go undetected. Spread a few bad medicines in with the rest and assuming your target is likely to need the medicine, and be brought to Charing Cross, you'll get them eventually. If a few other people go out with them, well that could have been a bad batch of Narcan. It's not likely to lead back to the individual planting them," Sherlock explained. "No, Mary's right, romance is least likely in this case. Regret is equally unlikely, regret killings tend to be murder suicides."

Mary nodded, her eyes glinting dangerously. "That just leaves revenge, the most dangerous motive. Someone bent on revenge has the most terrible kind of freedom, they often have nothing left to lose. That kind of motivation will drive people to unimaginable lengths. It would also explain the subtlety. The killer is on a mission and doesn't want to be interrupted until they've finished."

Sherlock nodded his agreement. In that moment he knew that the individual that killed Mary's husband had been made to suffer, an action that didn't weigh on her conscience in the slightest. That was what had made her such a good operative, she was ruthless and determined in a way most people would underestimate.

"Right, so, revenge," John interjected, drawing the gazes of Mary and Sherlock back to him "Let's start going through files then. I can pop back to the flat to get my laptop." John stood, but stilled, when Sherlock and Mary shared a knowing look. "What? Going through profiles is the next step." John looked at Sherlock with an accusing glare. "You said so yourself."

Sherlock stood and dared to take a step forward. "That is the next step, but it is still not enough. We can narrow it down to likely suspects, but I need more data to narrow the field to one."

John blinked, and then, if possible, his expression hardened even further. "You mean more people have to die."

It wasn't a question, but Sherlock answered it regardless. "More people are likely to die, yes."

John's breathing escalated rapidly for a few moments before he closed the distance between them and decked Sherlock soundly. Sherlock reeled from the impact in a way he hadn't when John had punched him during the case where he met Ms. Adler; this time his nose and teeth were not spared in the slightest.

"You absolute bastard!" John shouted, before turning on his heel and stomping down the steps.

Sherlock brought a hand up to his nose to staunch the bleeding, keeping his head tilted forward so the blood wouldn't drain down his throat while he blinked away the reflexive tears his eyes produced. He was about to move to the windows to watch John go when he was startled by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and found Mary frowning at him in concern. After a moment she said, "It's not broken."

Sherlock blinked at her in confusion. "I know that."

Mary offered him a tight lipped, conspiratorial smile. "I'll talk to him. He's already working at Charing Cross, so it would be easiest for him to keep an eye out, while we start looking for suspects that match the profile." Sherlock nodded slowly, fighting back a wince as he did so. "I have some time off saved up at the surgery; I'll be back tomorrow so we can get to work."

Her excitement was obvious, at least to Sherlock. She missed her work, her _real_ work... She was a much better match for John than he'd realized. He just had to convince her to abandon any plans she had about encouraging a reconciliation between himself and John, and time would do the rest...

Sherlock took a shuddering breath as his chest constricted, and hoped Mary would assume the swelling in his nose was obstructing his breathing. "You should go after him."

Mary pursed her lips and nodded once, giving Sherlock's shoulder one last squeeze before she headed towards the door. "See you tomorrow!"

As soon as he heard Mary's steady gait on the stairs Sherlock took several stumbling steps towards the window. It was stupid, it was foolish, but...he wanted to watch John go. Mary was good with words, better and more natural than Sherlock's manipulation because she tended to be as honest as possible. Sherlock knew she would convince John to work her plan for the case. A plan that, ironically, would keep Sherlock and John entirely separate. John was leaving 221 B and, depending on how the case went, it might be the _last_ time he ever did. As much as it hurt, Sherlock _had_ to watch.

He saw Mary leave the building and rest her hand on John's rigid shoulder. He had been loitering outside 221 waiting for Mary, and his entire body was as tight as Sherlock's bow strings. Mary forcibly slipped her arm through John's and started to walk with him, talking as she went. He was still tense, and his answers to Mary were clipped. Just before they rounded the corner and slipped out of sight Sherlock saw John's shoulders start to relax. Sherlock knew he had been right, and that Mary was already persuading John. Now it was time for Sherlock to make his own arrangements.

Sherlock tore himself away from the windows and reached for his phone. His hands were still shaking and he forced himself to take deep, measured breaths, trying desperately to control his transport.

"To what do I owe the surprise, brother mine?" Mycroft's voice was as measured and smooth as always.

"I need you to find a talented violinist, someone to play at the Royal Opera House for at least a few weeks. I have a new case that will interfere with some of my other arrangements.

"Why trust my judgment over your own?" Mycroft asked, the subtle amusement clear in his voice. He thought Sherlock was joking or teasing. That amusement faded when Sherlock's end of the line remained silent. Sherlock wasn't joking, and he was upset or distracted enough that he really _didn't_ trust himself. "I'll have someone there tomorrow afternoon," Mycroft said, his tone no longer amused, but worried.

Sherlock nodded, pocketing his phone as Mycroft ended the call. He had rehearsals to get to.

* * *

Sherlock had noted before, how astute Nikki was at reading emotions. Her practice undoubtedly came from trying to anticipate the sometimes violent mood swings of her alcoholic father. As such, he was not surprised when the smile fell from her face the moment she saw him walk into rehearsals.

"What's wrong?" she asked, jogging up to close the distance between them. Her arm was still in a cast and a sling. It was healing well, but it would still be at least four weeks before it was out of said cast, and another four weeks, at least, while she got her strength back.

"I have a case," Sherlock said softly, watching Nikki take a sudden step back from him, betrayal sweeping over her features. "I'll be here for tonight's performance, and tomorrow there will be a replacement here for me."

Nikki took a few steps back now, shaking her head violently. "Case? What case? What about _me_?"

"I just said, there will be a replacement violinist here," Sherlock replied.

Nikki was still backing up. "No, no, no," She chanted, tears forming in her eyes. "You're _lying_! Dr. Watson said you would do this!"

Sherlock wasn't surprised by her reaction Nikki had experienced many men, especially her father, making false promises to her. That, combined with the warning John had obviously given her, drove her over the edge of suspicion very quickly. Sherlock didn't try to stop her, or shout reassurances after her, as she turned and ran. Words, in her world and in most of reality, meant very little.

"Is there a problem?" Sherlock turned his head towards Mr. Walker who had heard Nikki's shouting and was now rapidly approaching him.

"I have been contracted for a very important case," Sherlock explained, irritated at having to repeat himself. "There will be a replacement here for me tomorrow, and for as long as I need to be away.

Mr. Walker's politician's smile was back again. "Mr. Homes, you have been very kind to Ms. Carter. But this...arrangement is really unusual enough. I have plenty of talented musicians in this company. It would be no problem what-so-ever to find someone for Nikki's seat."

"Someone you could keep there, you mean," Sherlock countered, his eyes narrowing. He had enough moving parts to deal with right now, he didn't need to keep reminding this over reaching rat of a man how powerless he really was.

Mr. Walker shrugged ineffectually and opened his mouth to deliver some trite speech that Sherlock had no patience to hear.

"Mr. Walker, we are both busy men. I know all about your business dealings, and you, by now, have had plenty of time to educate yourself on mine. I see, I observe, and I am relentless. People can hide nothing from me because the little hints they leave behind are only too obvious to me. Extramarital affairs, underhanded business dealings, petty rivalries, I've seen them all. It is not my fault that you owe money to the wrong sort of people and are trying to appease them by trying to offer one of their wives or daughters Nikki's seat. So far only you, the people you owe, and I are aware of your situation. How much your superiors become aware of, Mr. Walker, is entirely up to you."

Mr. Walker paled. "Is that a threat, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock began slowly, but menacingly, moving towards Mr. Walker, forcing him back until he was pressed against a wall with Sherlock towering over him. "Something is only a threat, Mr. Walker, if there is the slightest possibility that it may not be carried out. " Sherlock leaned forward a few inches more and whispered. "I take it we understand each other now?"

Mr. Walker flushed with anger and indignation, but he nodded.

Sherlock returned the nod and spun on his heels, walking back towards rehearsals.

* * *

There was a break between rehearsals and the first performance of the night. Most people went to eat, or get some fresh air, or simply to stretch their legs. Sherlock, however, remained in his seat, pulled out his phone, and started to text. He attached a picture of an average looking middle aged man. Then he attached a picture of the same man, as a corpse that he had taken during his autopsy.

 _This is Mr. Wallingford. He died at the age of 62, leaving behind a wife and three children. His recovery from his bypass was going well until an infection destroyed him. An infection we now believe was introduced by a serial killer. - SH_

Sherlock used his hacking skills to attach a picture of a healthy looking young woman, a little younger than Nikki, before the drugs had wasted her features. Then he attached a picture of her from the morgue records.

 _This is Emily Rowley. She was only twenty when she died. Dr. Watson cared for her when she was transported to hospital because of an overdose last night. If her Narcan medication hadn't been switched to morphine by whoever is behind this case, she might have lived. - SH_

Nikki's reply came two minutes later.

 _Stop it. Stop it, please._

 _I can't. This is what I do. - SH_

Yes, this was what he did. Solve cases and cause heartache. The two things in the world he was best at.

 _I'll be at rehearsals tomorrow to make sure my replacement is here as planned. I will have them monitored. -SH_

These kind actions, if one could really call them kind, given his true motivations and the pain they also caused, wouldn't fix things. They wouldn't fix _anything_ , but they would be all he had left after this case was over, and John was well and truly, gone forever...


	15. Beautiful Disaster

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to Brown Eyed Girl-62 and sweetmarly for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't think the Holloway Sanatorium is in operation anymore, but I wanted to pick something that actually existed in London, so for the sake of this story, let's presume it is still in operation.**

 **Trigger Warning: Mentions of involuntary commitment, persons struggling with psychotic symptoms, some mentions of blood/injury.**

* * *

Chapter 14: Beautiful Disaster

Sherlock loitered outside the Royal Opera House, waiting for his replacement. Normally he never would have bothered to double check on a task which Mycroft had accepted. Mycroft never went back on his word. However Sherlock had never given Mycroft anything truly important in the past, Sherlock preferred to do his own work. That was one of the reasons he'd primarily worked alone…before John.

Sherlock lifted his hands to adjust the collar of his coat against the wind. He was early, but he hadn't been able to sit still at the flat. He'd gotten started on researching the hospital staff as soon as he'd returned from his performance last night, but as the time he would normally leave for the opera house approached, he found himself increasingly… _distracted_. This _never_ happened on a case, and suddenly it was happening _every_ time he turned around. It was infuriating.

"You came." Sherlock turned nodded at Nikki, who had been slowly approaching him from behind for the last two minutes. He hadn't turned because tracking her movements had given him something to focus on, to make sure he wasn't completely losing his touch…and it would have been inconvenient if she ran away…

Nikki fiddled her hands for a few moments before she spoke again. "I'm sorry, for yesterday. It was selfish of me to get mad at you…and not to trust you."

"Given the experiences you've had with other people, especially older men, it would've been foolish if you had trusted me," Sherlock replied evenly. "All the data you have indicates that others, especially older men, can't be trusted."

A slow smile crept over Nikki's features, and the tension in her shoulders eased. "Yeah, but I know that's not true."

"Mr. Holmes?" They both turned to face a slim blond woman with gray eyes. She was neatly but not lavishly dressed, with a long grey trench left open in the wind, and her hair swept up in an immaculate bun at the back of her head. She carried a small black purse laid diagonally over her torso, just under her coat and in her left hand she gripped a pristine black violin case.

"Play," Sherlock commanded, and without any hesitation the woman before them set her case down on the ground and lifted her instrument out of it. She settled the violin on her shoulder, lifted the bow, and began playing the very first song in Swan Lake. She stood perfectly straight while her arms twisted and bent for the music. She never made any effort to stop, and Sherlock suspected she would have run through the entire performance if he required it.

After twelve minutes had passed, Sherlock instructed the woman again. "Stop." He shifted slightly so that he would face Nikki more directly. "Will she do?"

Nikki's hand rose in a loosely curled first to cover her mouth for a moment before she launched herself at Sherlock. Sherlock awkwardly patted her back, watching tears brim on the edge of Nikki's lashes. "I'll take that as a yes, then."

Nikki finally backed up laughing softly and whipping her eyes. "Yes, that's a yes." She looked up at him and beamed, her eyes still shining. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nodded and leaned forward slightly, offering a Nikki a slim piece of paper which she reached out to accept with a questioning gaze. "These numbers belong to my brother, Mycroft, and his live in lover, Lestrade. Please text them incessantly if anything doesn't go as planned. If everything does go as planned, text them incessantly anyway."

Nikki glanced down at the paper in her hands, grinning, and then looked back up at Sherlock. "I think I'll only bother them if there is a problem. Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she repeated. Her face grew more serious and she added, "Good luck with your case."

"It should be over soon," Sherlock assured her…too soon.

* * *

By the time Sherlock had made it back to 221 B, Mary was set up with a laptop on one side of the desk in the sitting room. Sherlock's desk chair and his open laptop waited for him on the opposite side of the table. Mary turned to look at Sherlock as he entered, smiling and waving in greeting. "Good afternoon, Sherlock."

"Mary," Sherlock replied, hanging his coat by the door before taking his seat and unlocking his laptop.

"I had unlocked it, but it was sitting idle long enough that it went to screen saver," Mary explained, not looking up from the work on her screen. "I figured it was a better use of my time to gather information then to keep your laptop perpetually ready to use." She paused to take a drink from the glass of water she'd left on the desk. "I see you got a good head start."

"It's a big hospital," Sherlock replied, unperturbed by her ability to hack his laptop. She could have used Sherlock's own backdoors into the Charing Cross Hospital internal network, but Sherlock suspected she hadn't. According to her profile, her skills with technology were overshadowed only by her remarkable aim with a firearm.

"I saw what you did with that girl." Mary said, her voice still casual, her fingers still busy at the keys and at the mouse.

"You've hacked into the street cameras as well." Sherlock replied dryly. "Mycroft will be thrilled."

Mary smirked, but made no other reply, and Sherlock was at last able to work in relative silence. It was slow work, but some of the best cases were. It was a simple process really: Observe, remember, and move forward until two or more pieces of data started to link together. Then, follow the trail.

There were an average amount of disgruntled or underpaid workers, but nothing was standing out so far. Sherlock's search was limited to current, not former, employees, regardless of length of time with the company. In a halfway intelligent person revenge could stew for years before being unleashed, but that didn't mean they'd spent all those years at one hospital.

There was a female nurse and a female social worker who had a very silent but very real animosity between them. The nurse had made some wrongful accusations against the social worker's husband, and the social worker _was_ out for revenge, and while her overall physiological makeup did reflect sociopathic traits, the social worker wasn't needlessly cruel. She might one day be the murderess of said nurse, but she wasn't likely to go after other people when it was an intensely personal revenge she was after. In a way every revenge was intensely personal, but the killer behind this case had a broader target. Most likely they were out to discredit the hospital as a whole, and hadn't yet increased their activities to the point where even the Yard would be able to detect them.

Sherlock carefully noted the social worker and the nurse's names for future reference, then moved on to the next few profiles. John's profile came up again and instead of ignoring it like he was meant to, Sherlock slipped into the video feed from Accident and Emergency and trained it on John. He was tired and drawn, but for all intents and purposes he was still safe. Satisfied, Sherlock shrank the video feed and set it in the upper right corner of his screen so that he'd be able to glance up as needed and ensure that John was still, in fact, safe.

Sherlock slogged through page after page of tediously banal employee profiles. One functioning opioid addict here, stealing from the pharmacy on a regular basis. There was also one overly ambitious resident who was already hoping to climb to the highest rank of surgeon in their class. There were a few other possible cases in the future, but mostly Sherlock was wading through endless tedium and irrelevant facts. He never rushed, however. That was an easy way to miss what you needed. Sherlock had worked cases with higher monetary value at risk, and potentially higher risk of loss of life, but this current case felt more important than many that had preceded it… It was illogical, it was unhealthy, and it very well might be the end of him, but Sherlock didn't seem to be able to rid himself of all this sentiment...and what was worse, he didn't even _want_ to...

"That's too often."

Sherlock blinked at looked up at Mary for an explanation. "Do you have something?"

An irritatingly fond smile crept over Mary's features and she shook her head. "Not about the case. I only meant to point out that you've been watching John through the security cameras every ten minutes. To optimize mental refreshment you want those distractions coming in every twenty minutes or so. Every ten is too often."

Sherlock blinked at her, not sure how to respond. He hadn't been clicking over to a new tab to watch John, that was the point of shrinking and fixing the camera feed in the top right hand corner, he could move from tab to tab without and disruption of his visual access to the Charing Cross security camera feed. She must have been tracking his eye movements… Although she might just have enough skills to have remotely accessed his computer. He was scanning and protecting against that kind of invasion, but as he'd thought earlier, Mary was a highly, highly skilled hacker and computer engineer.

A slow, satisfied grin made itself known on Mary's features before she spoke again. "Also you can stop staring at me. I'm not your enemy."

Sherlock thought of her obvious intentions to facilitate reconciliation between himself and John and murmured, "I'm not so sure about that."

"You're eyes soften a bit at the corners when you're looking at him, did you know that?" Mary continued, undeterred. "It's one of the most subtle tells I've ever seen, but given who you are, that's hardly surprising."

Sherlock took a measured breath and lifted his fingers close to his chin in an approximation of his thinking pose, his eyes never once leaving Mary's face. She was amused…but this was not a game. "John will not be returning to 221 B, Rosamund. Let me be clear on that point."

The amusement bled away from her, and the smile left her face, but Mary's eyes remained locked on his. "You must have dug very deep to find that name, Mr. Homes."

Sherlock shrugged and returned his gaze to his own computer, seeking to put an end to their current standoff. It was wasting time. "Background check."

Mary shook her head. "And you're trying to convince me that you _don't_ love him."

Sherlock refused to look up or offer any form of response. It was obvious from her tone she was thinking of her late husband, and anything he said or did would only be interpreted as further proof of her stance. Ultimately the case was the most important thing right now. The sooner the case was closed the sooner John would be gone again… It might not be the only case that ever brought him to Sherlock, but regardless, John would eventually ask Mary out. Sherlock estimated it would take twelve months of relative stability before John would try to woo Mary. She would resist, considering him taken, but just slightly. The mild resistance would only make her more appealing to John, he would know she wasn't rushing into anything. He would win her over eventually. She already fancied him a bit, and she wasn't in denial about it. In the end, time and Sherlock's absence would do more for John's happiness then Sherlock ever could…

Mary, thankfully remained silent, and their work resumed. They didn't check with each other about which files they were reviewing, they didn't need to divide and conquer. If anything, having two people reviewing the same files increased the odds of finding something subtle. Of course Sherlock would be the one to find anything of importance, but Mary's silent company wasn't torturous.

"Drink."

Something was nudging him, but Sherlock didn't respond.

"Drink or I'll dump it on your computer." Mary's voice was lilting and sweet and at the same time absolutely serious as she spoke.

Sherlock grumbled and reached for the cup she was holding out for him, draining it as quickly as possible. He made to toss it over his shoulder when Mary's voice interjected again. "I wouldn't do that; if John comes back he might cut himself on the shards."

Sherlock rose from his seat with a laborious sigh and trudged into the kitchen, leaving his glass in the sink. When he returned, he didn't bother to look at Mary. Commenting on her manipulation would only encourage her. Instead he focused intently on his work. He was getting along reasonably well until the next time he glanced up at John and Mary _giggled_ at him. Sherlock closed the camera security feed in retaliation, focusing the whole of his attention on the charts in front of him. There was only ten minutes left in John's shift by now, anyway.

Forty minutes later Mary stood and stretched. She was going to say her goodbyes and make other meaningless small talk that Sherlock was going to ignore…except the phone rang.

Mary started, Sherlock continued typing, and the phone rang and rang.

"Shouldn't you get that?" Mary asked.

"No," Sherlock replied, undeterred. It was only Lestrade. He probably had a case for Sherlock, and he was _not_ interested.

Mary stared at the phone until it stopped ringing, then glanced up at Sherlock one more time before rolling her eyes and walking towards the door to collect her coat. That's when the texts started, one after another in rapid succession, almost like a knocking.

 _Pick_

 _Up_

 _The_

 _Phone_

 _Idiot._

 _It's_

 _About_

 _John._

Sherlock picked up his phone with the intent of silencing it when he saw John's name flash across the scene. "Mary, stay," he called out, unlocking his phone and picking up just as Lestrade was calling him again.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Why do you have to be so bloody stubborn?!"

"What's happened?" Sherlock asked, watching Mary step back into the room and move over to the phone, bending down so that she could hear.

Lestrade sighed raggedly. "John's been… detained for evaluation. Apparently Harry came into Charing Cross yesterday morning for alcohol poisoning and there was a mix up with her medications. That was the night John worked overnight, and there's been an investigation. John's been charged with malpractice. The paperwork came through about an hour ago. Apparently someone pushed hard for a psychological evaluation. They caught him just as he was leaving his shift. He's being taken to Holloway Sanatorium as we speak."

Sherlock stood, and Mary straightened with his movement. "I'll meet you there."

"Right, just…just don't do anything stupid Sherlock, okay?"

Sherlock could hear the worry in Lestrade's voice. He knew what Lestrade was really asking, but he couldn't offer any reassurances. He didn't have any time to waste, so he hung up the phone, silenced it, and slid it into his jacket pocket. Sherlock turned and shared a short, grim look with Mary.

"I'll get Harry," She offered. "I'll have her transferred to St. Thomas Hospital."

Sherlock blinked. He hadn't even thought of Harry, but that would be best. John did love his sister. "Thank you."

Mary stopped mid turn and looked back at him. That annoying amused smile was back. "You're welcome."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't make this more than it is, we have work to do."

Mary nodded and together they made their way down the stairs and out the door. They split in opposite directions, each hailing and securing a cab, moving as quickly as they could to their different locations.

Sherlock had his cabbie stop about a mile away from Holloway Sanatorium. He wasn't going to be let in, neither was Lestrade. This wasn't a legitimate investigation; the timing of this was too convenient. This was an _attack_. The killer must have seen John working a shift and moved to neutralize what they perceived at a threat because of John's former connection to Sherlock. Given the killers modus operandi John would likely suffer some sort of 'tragic accident' while inside Holloway Sanatorium, and Sherlock could _not_ let that happen.

Sherlock carefully picked his way towards the main part of the campus, scanning the ground in front of him as he went. He needed a way in that was inconspicuous. No matter how tight security was, once he was inside, if he looked calm, like he belonged there, Sherlock knew he was much less likely to be questioned.

Subduing a guard was out of the question. His security badge wouldn't match his face, and sans killing an otherwise innocent person, it wouldn't give him enough time. Breaking in wasn't even on the table. It would trigger alarms and give him even less time than a security uniform. He could just barely make out Lestrade at the front entrance, arguing animatedly with the attendant there.

Sherlock smiled when he saw the delivery truck on the far west side of the building. It was large, eighteen wheels, wide load, with a small string of people carrying boxes from the truck into what was most likely the kitchens or some other form of storage. Sherlock slipped over towards the van, approaching from the far side to maximize the cover it would offer him until he was at the back of the van. Sherlock waited until the last of the line of people had disappeared into the kitchen before stepping around the truck and lifting several of the large boxes out of it. The boxes obscured, but didn't completely hide his face, so they wouldn't look like a disguise, but most of the people he saw would look no further than the boxes in Sherlock's arms.

He maneuvered into the kitchen and walked to the far corner before he set all but one of his boxes down on the counter. Most of the delivery people were bent over their boxes, setting them down, flirting with the kitchen staff, or helping set the food items away. They were just distracted enough to 'see' Sherlock without really observing him.

Sherlock hefted the box that was still in his arms, adjusting the weight as he opened the door that lead to the interior hallways of the building. The kitchen door slid almost silently into place behind him. It was a good start, but it would be foolish to be overly cautious. Keeping the box he still carried shifted to one side, Sherlock lifted his phone from his trouser pocket and pressed it to his ear. "Yes, yes. I'm on my way, I'm just trying to find the damn laundry room." He paused and glanced around, listening. When he heard the tell-tale hum he was searching for Sherlock adjusted his course, nodding into his phone as though he was listening to someone on the other side.

" _Yes_ , I have the delivery. Did you think I would leave it in the truck? Honestly, Mike…"

Sherlock didn't see anyone in his brief time in the hallway, but he was glad he had taken precautions regardless. He knew the security cameras were still watching, and he was not likely to be tracked down if he looked like a simple delivery man that someone else had already let in. Human error left even the most secure places vulnerable to intrusion.

Sherlock pushed inside the laundry room and set his box down under the table by the door. Thankfully he was alone. Not wasting any time, Sherlock strode forward and plucked a long white doctor's coat from a rack that several other dry coats were hanging from. Then he used the water in the sink to slick back his hair. It would've been better if someone had mislaid a pair of glasses, but Sherlock saw no such items and wasn't willing to waste time.

Adjusting the coat one last time, Sherlock pushed open the door of the laundry and stepped briskly out into the hallway. He held his phone up as he walked, furiously hacking the internal network for the Holloway Sanatorium as well as pulling up and reviewing the blue prints for the buildings on campus. There were very few places that weren't monitored regularly, and Sherlock knew his misdirection wouldn't last forever. Someone would wise up at some point and there would be a chase; he had to have his exit route planned in advance.

Sherlock's pace increased markedly as soon as he had John's room number. He couldn't get there soon enough, and he had to forcibly restrain himself from running. It wasn't likely that any attempt on John's life would be made in the first few hours of his admission; that would be too convenient for even the Yard to miss. Even so, Sherlock _needed_ to see John, to know that he was unharmed.

Two flights of stairs and one long hallway later and Sherlock was _finally_ turning the corner towards John's room. This new hallway had two guards and two orderlies waiting outside of the room to the right at the very end of the hall. For a moment Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat, but he forced himself to breath and observe. John's room was close to the end of this hall, not at the very end, whatever they were waiting for, it wasn't John.

One of the stern faced orderlies nodded at Sherlock as he approached. "Evening Doctor, glad you could make it on such short notice."

"How is the patient?" Sherlock asked, slipping his phone into his trouser pocket once more.

The orderly shrugged. "Vitals are stable, but he's been unusually restless, and we thought it would be best to move the med consult, given how hard he is to sedate when he gets psychotic."

Sherlock nodded. "Good call." He turned his gaze to the door and the guards unlocked it for him. "Thank you for your help, gentlemen," Sherlock murmured as he slipped inside the patients room. The overhead lights were off, but he didn't attempt to turn them on. He could see the gaunt patient crouched on the cot pressed into the far right wall clearly enough, and if the orderlies ended up rushing in here to subdue the patient the dim light would add to their confusion and buy Sherlock more time to act.

Sherlock crouched on the floor near the cot, and asked, "How are we doing tonight?" The man was obviously hallucinating. He had schizophrenic disorder, poorly controlled because it had been mistaken for Bipolar Disorder with psychotic features.

"The bugs…" the patient's voice was barely above a whisper, and his eyes were darting rapidly over the ceiling tiles. "They won't stop…Please make the bugs go away!" The patient screwed his eyes tightly shut, pressed his hands firmly against his ears and started rocking gently back and forth in a feeble effort to self-sooth.

Sherlock leaned forward and lightly brushed the patient's arm with his fingertips to get his attention. The patient gasped and shrank even further into himself, pressing his head down onto his knees. "You want the bugs to go away?" Sherlock asked, his voice so low that none of the others waiting in the hallway were likely to hear.

"Yes, please…" The patient breathed, his breath coming in stuttered gasps.

"Scream," Sherlock ordered his voice still low.

"What?" The patient asked, sniveling and lifting his head just slightly from his knees to peer at Sherlock dubiously.

"Scream," Sherlock repeated. "If you scream loudly enough, they will go away."

Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper, so the patient had to lean in slightly to hear him. "I tried," the patient whispered back, his eyes filling with tears.

"Try again," Sherlock murmured encouragingly. "If you give it _everything_ you have, it will work."

They stared at each other for a long moment in the darkness before the patient sucked in a deep breath and began to shriek and flail his limbs. He held nothing back, as Sherlock had instructed. He was so loud that Sherlock had to shout as he stood, "I need help in here!"

The orderlies and the guards were already rushing into the room. One orderly turned on the light while another orderly and a guard dove to subdue the patient. The patient didn't resist the constraint, but his wailing continued unabated. The second orderly removed several syringes from his pocket, placing all but one of them on a small shelf set into the wall. While the orderlies sedated the screaming patient Sherlock barked orders at them. "This patient needs a titration of Librium and a four milligram increase in Risperidone!"

"Heard, doctor" one of the orderly confirmed while the other removed the first syringe and reached for a second. The patient's fit had lost some of its force, but not as much as expected. He probably had a high tolerance or an altered metabolism. Sherlock handed the orderly another syringe, reaching behind him with his other hand to pocket one for himself.

"I'll go change the orders in his chart," Sherlock continued, his voice still raised, but not quite yelling. "Make sure he starts receiving new protocols in the morning!"

"Yes doctor," The orderlies chorused as Sherlock backed out of the room, nodding to the guards as he went. Deft fingers relived the second guard of his keys. The master key was easy to deduce, it was too common a practice for large buildings like this to have multiple locks respond to the same key. It saved on space and confusion, and reduced actual security at the same time.

Sherlock's gaze swept the hallway as he entered it. Finding it clear, he shoved the key into the lock on John's door and turned it. The door opened and he slid inside, pulling it shut behind him.

"What are you _doing_ here, Sherlock?!" John stood in the corner of the room, close to the window, dressed in plain gray scrubs.

The keys clattered softly to the floor as Sherlock crossed the short distance between them and covered John's mouth with his hand, his other hand gripping John's arm tightly.

"Quiet!" Sherlock hissed. "We don't have much time."

John frowned and pulled his head back to repeat his query, but this time his voice was a low murmur. "Why did you come here, Sherlock? There's obviously been a mix-up, but this is not the way to handle it."

Sherlock gripped both of John's shoulders tightly in his hands and shook him. "You can't stay here, John! It's not safe!"

Sherlock's voice was still hushed, but the urgency in his tone and posture brought John up short. He'd almost never seen Sherlock so beside himself. He looked genuinely panicked.

"There isn't time to explain," Sherlock pressed, lifting the syringe from his pocket and pulling the cap off. "I need you to _trust_ me, John."

John's eyes were round and fixed on the glinting point of the needle as it approached the skin of his arm.

* * *

"Help! We need a gurney in here!" Sherlock shouted, out into the hall, drawing the attention of the guards and orderlies, who'd only just managed to subdue his last patient.

"Hey, how'd you get into that room?" One of the guards asked, frowning at Sherlock, who was leaning out of John's room.

Sherlock stepped completely out into the hallway, his expression hardening. " _You_ must have let your keys slip when you rushed inside the other room," he accused, thrusting the guards keys back at him. "Normally I'd have to make a report, but right now I have an unresponsive patient with a needle in his arm!" The guard peered into John's room and paled.

John lay limp, head lolling on his cot, one arm swung out, slopping to the floor with the very needle Sherlock had stolen stuck firmly into his vein at the crook of his elbow.

"Christ!" The guard sputtered, taking a step back.

"I'm going to let your mistake go _this_ time, because it enabled me to make sure the patient was still breathing, but I need to get him into the infirmary, I need to find out what he took!" Sherlock's tone was sharp, but not loud when he insisted again, "I need a gurney."

"Right." The security guard and his partner turned, and made way for the orderlies, who had listened to Sherlock's first order without question, and were wheeling a gurney into the room. Sherlock stepped back, waiting until both orderlies were completely in the room before pulling the needle from John's arm. The two orderlies transferred John's listless body from the cot onto the gurney and Sherlock followed them out of the room, passing the syringe to one of the flustered guards as he went.

"You two stay here," Sherlock called over his shoulder. "This ward obviously needs extra supervision tonight."

The guards nodded solemnly, and Sherlock disappeared with the two orderlies around the corner. The elevator ride that followed was quick and silent. Sherlock followed the orderlies closely through three more hallways before they came to one that was quiet and otherwise unoccupied. Now was probably the best chance they were going to get.

Without warning, Sherlock violently struck one of the orderlies over the head and used the momentum to ram the orderly into the closest wall. The man slumped with a small moan, not exactly unconscious, but thoroughly dazed. Broad fingers clasped Sherlock's arm for a moment before being forcefully pulled back.

Sherlock spun and saw John pulling the other man back into a sleepers hold. Sherlock stepped forward and relieved the orderly of yet another syringe full of sedatives. Jamming the needle home Sherlock pushed half the dose into the man's veins. There was twenty seconds of intense struggle before the orderly slumped in John's arms, and John eased him back onto the gurney.

Standing, breath elevated from his efforts John turned and locked eyes with Sherlock. "What now?"

"Now we run," Sherlock replied rushing past John, who quickly followed him down the hall. They dashed through the maze of halls, working their way towards the kitchens. The time of night meant there weren't many people about, but anyone they did see they barreled through as Sherlock repeatedly shouted, "Fire! Fire!"

There was no fire, but the momentary panic and confusion easily allowed the pair to make it through the kitchen and out onto the grounds. Alarms were sounding now, and John didn't know if they were for him, or because of the presumed fire. Either way he didn't care and he didn't stop as Sherlock ran headlong into a small bit of woods that surrounded the edges of the campus. They reached the wall closing the property in and, with surprising ease, hoisted each other up and over it.

Sherlock didn't stop once they were on the other side, but tore down the street, turning down a side street, and dove into a small ally between buildings, John hot on his heels. Once they were both in the ally, Sherlock tugged John down behind some bins that were set close to one of the buildings. They huddled, panting for breath, listening to the distant ringing of the alarms from Holloway Sanatorium.

"That was insane," John gasped.

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Yes, that's why we ran from it."

John rolled his eyes before fixing Sherlock with an exasperated glare. "Shut up you."

That only made Sherlock laugh harder, his body shaking with suppressed noise as he gasped for breath. John had to bite the inside of his cheek hard to avoid laughing too. He didn't _want_ to be happy right now. He didn't _want_ to think about how much _fun_ that mad dash had been, how _willing_ he'd been to believe Sherlock as he ejected the sedative onto the floor by John's cot, breathlessly explaining his plan. He'd let Sherlock push the needle of the empty syringe into his arm, he'd laid back on his cot, playing at being unconscious until he heard the sounds of the scuffle he knew would come.

Part of him had wanted to rebel and push Sherlock away but the emotion, the pain, and _fear_ in Sherlock's face… John knew Sherlock was a consummate actor, but this felt different, like it might be real…and then it had been too much _fun_ , too much like old times to question. This was exactly what he didn't need, and why he'd been so hesitant to come to Sherlock in the first place. John took a steadying breath even as he felt his chest tighten. One thing at a time. He had to stay focused on the case. Perhaps Sherlock felt his detainment was related, and that's why he'd been concerned about John's safety.

Sherlock's panicked face flashed through John's mind and he shook his head to clear it. Sherlock had looked so much more than concerned…and John needed an explanation.

John looked over to Sherlock and opened his mouth, but was stopped by the sight of blood dripping down Sherlock's arm and off the tip of his elbow. Sherlock was clutching the arm in question, probably to apply pressure, but if it was still bleeding…

"Sherlock, what happened?"

"Hm?" Sherlock looked over at John, then followed John's gaze to his arm and shrugged. "I cut myself against one of the branches when we were running."

"Why didn't you tell me?!" John asked, reaching forward to try to grasp Sherlock's arm and get a look at it.

Sherlock shrank back against the bins looking more fearful than irritated, which gave John pause. Sherlock had always been a terrible patient, but that was because of his impatience, not…whatever this was.

"I had to get you out of there, John," Sherlock insisted, still cradling his injured arm. "It wasn't safe for you." Sherlock spoke in a steady, quiet tone so much more resolute then anything Sherlock had ever said or yelled during a tantrum.

John's eyes flickered up to Sherlock's for a moment then he looked away again. There was a warmth in Sherlock's eyes that John had always thought was there, but now it was so easy to see it was suffocating. This was an act. It _had_ to be an act. John opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off.

"It's fine. There are worse pains." Sherlock looked away, towards the street and John could see the muscles of his throat working as he swallowed. "Our ride will be here soon."

"Our ride? What, did you call us an Uber?" John spat, his exasperation rising. He wasn't really angry, but anger was one of the few emotions that felt safe at the moment.

At just that moment a long back Bentley pulled up at the end of the ally and idled there.

"Oh," John said flatly, not pleased that Mycroft was involved in this whole mess too.

They both stood, John automatically reaching out to steady Sherlock, concerned about the depth of his wound. The moved quickly and quietly into the car, settling into the long backseat beside Mycroft's assistant.

John watched the scenery and buildings go by in a daze as the car sped away. How could one simple work day go so wrong? He blinked and looked to his left where Sherlock was attempting some sort of acrobatics, wiggling and shuffling around. "What are you doing now?"

Sherlock looked up slightly guiltily, which made John regret his sharp tone momentarily. It was _Sherlock_ who had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Life was never this crazy without him. "I need my phone," Sherlock explained, his voice unusually quiet.

John rolled his eyes and reached forward to lift the phone out of Sherlock's pocket, trying to ignore the heat he could feel radiating off of Sherlock's body. " _Now_ you try to be independent. How many times have you asked me to fetch your phone when both your arms were in _perfect_ working order?"

Sherlock looked up as he accepted the phone, a small wry grin on his features. "It's never stopped you from getting it for me, has it?"

John sputtered and pulled away, his hand clenching reflexively at the tingling sensation that spread through him as his fingers brushed Sherlock's. What was _wrong_ with him? … Suddenly desperate for a change of topic, John turned back to Sherlock and asked, "What are you doing anyway?"

"Changing the medication orders for that patient you heard screaming," Sherlock explained, his eyes never leaving his phone.

" _Why_?!" John could feel a headache coming on. This was ridiculous. All of it.

"He's hallucinating because he has paranoid schizophrenia, not bipolar disorder with psychotic features. He was misdiagnosed."

"Why do you know that?" John bit back the impulse to ask why it mattered. If the man really was misdiagnosed new meds would help, but that didn't explain why Sherlock was helping…

"I hacked Holloway Sanatorium's internal network when I was looking for you," Sherlock explained.

"Tore their system to shreds you mean," Anthea remarked with a huff. "Do you have _any_ idea how much cleanup work you left us?"

Sherlock shrugged. "My objective was time sensitive."

Anthea shot Sherlock a sharp look over her phone, but made no further comment.

John forced himself to take several deep breaths before asking, "What does all of this, have to do with the case, Sherlock? I need an explanation, _now_."

"This was an attack, John. The timing is too convenient. Someone met you or saw you working at Charing Cross and they knew someone was on to them, because..." Sherlock paused and swallowed again. "because of my connection with you."

"Christ!" John muttered, running a hand through his hair. "What about Harry? Where is she?"

"Mary's got her," Sherlock assured him. "She made sure Harry was transferred to St. Thomas Hospital, so that she couldn't be used as leverage either."

"How, exactly did she manage that?" John sputtered his concern rising. "She's not family-"

"She doesn't need to be," Sherlock cut him off. "Not with her skill set."

"She's an excellent nurse, but... what?" John sighed. "What is it now? What am I missing?"

"She's a nurse _now_ ," Sherlock explained. "She spent most of her younger years in free lance special ops. That's how she's seen so much of the world, and she left the business after her husband died."

John shook his head in disbelief. Couldn't _anything_ about his life be normal? "She must be good," he murmured, his head spinning.

"Good enough that she didn't need any help hacking the network for Charing Cross."

"Jesus," John muttered, holding his face in his hands. All he'd tried to do was piece his life together, and he'd unwittingly stepped right back into madness. There was no way he could return to Charing Cross now...

"We've arrived gentlemen," Anthea murmured as the car gently came to a stop.

John looked up and his scowl deepened. "What are we doing _here_?" John didn't look out the door, forced himself not to turn and glance at 221 Baker Street. He'd sworn he'd never come back here so many times, and it had taken a serial killer to get him to return even the one time... "Whatever the plan is, you can forget it. I want to see Harry, I need to make sure she's alright."

"This isn't your stop, John, this is mine," Sherlock clarified.

"What? _What_ are you talking about?" John asked, turning in his seat to face Sherlock. He glanced down at Sherlock's arm, blood was still slowly dripping over his fingers and down his elbow. "Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. You need to have that stitched and bandaged."

Sherlock shook his head. "I've got work to do. It will only take a minute to stitch this up. I've got a lead now, I need to follow it."

John sighed and shook his head emphatically. "Do you always have to be such a massive dickhead?" When he received no response, John looked up into Sherlock's eyes. He didn't like the sadness he read there...

 _There are worse pains..._

No. He was not going down that road. He and Sherlock were a closed book. Sherlock did not love him, this was ridiculous. He needed to focus on the case, just the case. John tore his gaze away from Sherlock's and fixed it on the all too familiar door of 221. "Let's just go, I need to get a look at that arm."

"I really can-"

"Move it, Sherlock!" John ordered, pushing at his sides and back, careful to avoid pushing against the injured arm. Sherlock begrudgingly relented and slid from the car. John followed Sherlock out and then turned back around towards Anthea. "I won't be long. _Don't_ drive off without me. I want to see my sister."

"I'm stationed with you through the night Dr. Watson," Anthea replied with a slight smile. "On guard here or at hospital makes no difference to me."

That was not as reassuring as it should have been. Any excuse to stay was too dangerous. John swallowed, then nodded again "Right." He straightened and followed Sherlock inside 221 B.

Mrs. Hudson, thankfully, made no appearance as they entered. Hopefully she was sleeping. John genuinely enjoyed her company most of the time, but tonight had been straining to the point that he doubted he'd be any more gracious than Sherlock normally was about small talk.

They walked through the door to 221 B together, in a strained silence. John's eyes scanned the flat, taking a moment to really look at it in a way he hadn't last time. It was a mess, but no worse off than when he'd first moved in. John blinked and looked away, refusing to be drawn into any more painful memories. "I assume you have the supplies we need?" John asked, turning to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. "They're just in the loo closet. I'll get them."

"Nope," John ordered, holding out a hand to stop Sherlock's forward momentum. John almost flinched when Sherlock's torso collided with his hand, before hurriedly pulling back again. "You are going to sit down on the sofa, and wait."

John expected an argument, but there was none, just a small pause before Sherlock turned and sat on the Sofa as he'd been bid. John watched him for a moment, frowning. He didn't _want_ to worry about Sherlock, he didn't want to _care_ about him anymore, but he couldn't seem to help himself, especially when Sherlock was acting so strangely... He never panicked under pressure, he always demanded someone else get his phone, and he _never_ _ **ever**_ did what he was told...

Turning, John made his way quickly towards the closet by the loo. It was a bit of a mess in there, but the supplies were actually there, as opposed to being in the oven or whatever else seemed to make sense to Sherlock most of the time. John gathered them up and stepped into the sitting room, halting when he saw Sherlock, using his injured hand, his good one was still gripping his injured forearm tightly, to clear a space on the coffee table. He looked up a moment later and leaned back, not bothering to comment on, or explain his actions.

"Did someone hit you on the head?" John asked, slowly setting his supplies down and pulling up a chair.

"No," Sherlock replied softly, staring fixedly at the carpet.

John peered dubiously at Sherlock for a few moments before turning and heading to the kitchen for some water. He returned with a large pot that he had just filled. "I hope this doesn't have in it, or something, "John muttered, setting the pot down.

"It doesn't," Sherlock assured him, still not looking at him.

"Give me your hand," John instructed, reaching out to Sherlock, his voice finally taking on a softer tone.

Sherlock relented and held his injured arm out for John to examine. Slowly, John undid the cuffs, and moved the ruined fabric of Sherlock's shirt away from the gash. It was a long gash starting just above the elbow and sloping in a slight curve towards the wrist as it approached Sherlock's hand. It was a good four inches away from any of the veins in the wrist or inner forearm, for which John was grateful. Grasping Sherlock's wrist gently, John held it over the pot of water and lifted up one of the clean towels he'd set aside. "This might sting a bit," he warned.

Sherlock chuckled morosely. "I haven't lost that many of my faculties, John. I am quite familiar with this process."

John frowned because he knew Sherlock was right. His body was littered with many scars, some thin and silver, others darker and more obvious. None of them were as dramatic as John's old bullet wound, but they compensated in sheer number. "Why did you do this, Sherlock?" John asked, dipping the towel in the warm water, and lifting it out again to wash Sherlock's laceration. "Why were you in such a panic? What does the man who screamed have to do with the case?"

"He doesn't have anything to do with the case, John, I told you."

"Then _why_ are you helping him?" John asked, looking up, his hands still clearing the excess blood away. "What had you so panicked back at Holloway? I'm not brilliant like you are, you're going to have to spell it out for me." John's tone was becoming clipped again as he lost patience.

Sherlock swallowed and looked away. "I already told you that, too. You were in danger. This was a deliberate attack. An attempt would have been made on your life."

John frowned, fixing his eyes back on his work. Sherlock was cruel, he couldn't deny that, he'd seen too much evidence, but for all his bluster, he'd never needlessly wasted lives... "Danger to my life doesn't account for changing the medication orders for that patient, Sherlock," John pressed. He was met with silence.

"Sherlock," John repeated, refusing to be denied. He was able to set the wet cloth down now and slowly pat dry the skin around the wound.

"It was me...," Sherlock breathed. "I thought it was you, but it was me." Sherlock was running his good hand through his hair now, heedless of the blood he was smearing.

" _Sherlock_ ," John's pitch was a high, warning tone. He didn't have time to waste on cryptic answers.

Sherlock heaved a shuddering breath but still did not reply. John lifted a syringe, which he had filled with a local anesthetic, cursing himself for finding it _amusing_ that Sherlock had all these medical supplies just sitting around the flat..

" _You really think he's in_ _ **love**_ _with me?"_

" _I really do."_

John removed the needle more forcefully than was strictly necessary. No. He was not doing this!

Long elegant fingers caught John's wrist. "John, I really can take care of the rest."

John wrenched his hand out of Sherlock's grip and stood in a violent rush, knocking over the chair he'd been using just moments ago. " _Why_ are you so eager to have me _gone_?!" He was shouting properly now, and he didn't care.

"Because I love you!" Sherlock shouted back, and then he paled and looked away. "I love you, John," he repeated softly, and more to himself than to John, "and I can't make you happy." Sherlock shook his head and seemed to curl in on himself slightly. "I don't seem to be good at anything but causing trouble...and _hurting_ you in the process..."

"Stop it," John insisted in a disbelieving, breathy voice. He repeated himself more firmly. "Just stop it, Sherlock. You don't get to do this, not now. Stop it."

Sherlock stopped, clamping his lips shut until the edges turned white. John sucked in what he prayed would be a calming breath and righted his chair. He was a doctor. He had a patient to tend to, then he needed to see his sister. One simple task after another, and he would be able to put this whole sodding night behind him.

" _I think he feels guilty. I've seen it done a million times on cases, so have you. Someone does something wrong, they try to overcompensate by doing something nice, or doing something their loved one would approve of. Granted you and I tend to see the twisted side of that more often than not, but it's still human nature."_

John's hand was steady with the needle, the thread slowly pulled Sherlock's torn skin back together. It was a familiar site, but somehow it felt different this time. He hadn't really given the anesthetic enough time to sink in, but Sherlock never even winced.

" _There are worse pains..."_

John glanced up, just for a moment, then cursed himself for doing so. Sherlock's blue/gray eyes were waiting for him in an expression so vulnerable that it hurt to look at. Had he really meant what he'd said? Did he even know _what_ he was saying?

 _"I love you, John..."_

John's fingers began to tremble as he tied the final knot on Sherlock's stitches. After everything, _everything_ that Sherlock had put him through, he shouldn't...he shouldn't still..

"John." Sherlock's voice was warm and concerned as his hands steadied John's trembling fingers.

John sucked in another breath, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly it hurt. He was trying to regain his composure, trying to block out the truth...and then Sherlock's voice came again, warm and soft in his ear.

"John."

John surged forward, crushing their lips together in a fierce, desperate kiss. For a moment they were a tangle of hands, and lips, tongues and teeth, and then John jerked away as suddenly as he had come, turning and rushing out the door of 221 B as fast as his shaking legs would carry him.

Sherlock watched him go, panting for breath, and wondering if they had _all_ lost their minds...


	16. Clarity

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to Altariel de Valinor, sweetmarly, and Brown Eyed Girl-62 for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I love hearing back from my readers, and the support is much appreciated. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

 **Disclaimer: None of the characters depicted in this story are real, and I am not trying to disparage any of the actual staff of the Charing Cross Hospital.**

 **TRIGGER WARNING: Major character death in this chapter. I'm also going to take a moment to note the happy ending tag. There IS a happy ending, there's just a bit of tragedy before we get there...**

* * *

Chapter 15: Clarity

Somehow it was both very foggy and raining hard, and John found his clothes growing increasingly soggy; his coat could only do so much to keep the weather out. The increasing moisture, however, was not the reason John's face was fixed in a deep frown, almost a scowl. After two days of looking after Harry, and all but living in St. Thomas Hospital, John had finally been given the all clear to go out into the world. The malpractice charges had been dropped; evidence had been submitted that John had already left the hospital by the time Harry had arrived for treatment. Mycroft had even managed to cover up the orders that had been given for John to be incarcerated in a mental health institution for evaluation… but things couldn't go back to normal.

John's frown was giving him a headache now, but he didn't care. He'd only just started to try to carve out some sense of normalcy with this job, and now he had to give it up. Mycroft had been adamant, so had Greg, and even Sherlock had dared to text him that Charing Cross was no longer safe for him. He didn't like it, but John knew he couldn't avoid the truth: There was a serial killer out to get him, and he'd only make himself an easy target if he kept working at Charing Cross. That was why, after returning to the flat for a shower and a change of clothes, he'd typed up his letter of resignation and went right back out again to deliver it in person. He was reasonably certain that Mycroft was having him tailed, despite John's vehement protests, but ultimately that was the least of his worries. Right now he had a case that needed solving, and then…

John sighed, his warm breath momentarily warding off the chill around his face. What was he going to do then? When Sherlock had evicted him, John had focused on the next logical step. Secure temporary housing, search for more stable housing, and work to further his medical career. Now…now everything seemed so muddied…

" _I love you, John."_

John growled softly in frustration, his hands balling into fists for a moment. Sherlock had no right to say that to him! Not after everything he'd done, not after how hard John had worked to move forward. It wasn't right, and it didn't change anything! Sherlock had ordered him out, and he was bloody well staying out!

John forced his hands to unclench and took several deep, measured breaths. Sherlock was not worth it. If lives weren't at stake, John wouldn't have ever spoken to him again. Right now he had to focus, one step at a time. He needed to turn in his letter of immediate resignation to Charing Cross, then he needed to return to Mary. As much as this resignation frustrated him, it would likely give Sherlock the data he needed to narrow down suspects.

Glancing up, John saw that Charing Cross was fast approaching. He squared his shoulders and marched inside. He nodded to Susan at the intake desk, and turned the corner towards the administrative offices without breaking stride. Eric, his supervisor, had the third office on the left. John knocked and was mildly surprised to hear an energetic, "Come in! The door's open!"

John opened the door and stepped inside. Eric's face brightened when he saw him. "John! Good to see you! I'm so sorry about that investigation. I'm glad it cleared up, I thought the charges were ludicrous. I'm still not sure where it came from, there's only so much human resources can tell me."

"It's fine," John assured him. "I just wanted to drop this off, before any further changes in scheduling." John held out the legal sized white envelope and Eric's face fell.

"Please tell me that's not a letter of resignation, John." When John didn't reply Eric sighed. "You're a very good doctor, John, I'd like to keep you if we could."

"I understand, it's just—" John was abruptly cut off when his phone started to ring. John frowned. "I'm sorry I need to take this. There's been a bit of a family emergency going on lately."

Eric nodded, "Of course, I'm sorry it's been a rough week for you."

Eric still seemed reluctant to take his letter of resignation, so John set it down on the corner of the desk before lifting his phone out of his trouser pocket. He hesitated when he saw it was Sherlock calling and almost didn't pick up. John didn't _want_ to talk to Sherlock right now. He was angry…and confused. But Sherlock almost never called, so it had to be important. Hoping that Sherlock had found a lead, John forced himself to pick up at the last moment.

"Hello?"

"I think I found him," Sherlock replied, and despite himself John smiled. Sherlock was exuberant when he was on the chase, and it was infectious.

"Where?"

"Meet me in the staff room, I'll explain once you get here."

John opened his mouth to protest, but the line had already gone dead. He closed his mouth, and frowned at his phone, resisting the urge to grumble in frustration. If Sherlock was right, this would all be over very soon. John looked back to Eric and said, "I'm sorry, I have to go."

"I understand," Eric replied, slowly and reluctantly lifting John's resignation letter off his desk. "I'll hang on to this, but I do want to talk to you about this before it's processed. Are you free tomorrow?"

John hesitated, "I really don't know. This could be over in a few hours, or it could take days."

"Keep in touch with me as best you can. I'll hold off on this for as long as possible," Eric replied, gesturing to John's letter of resignation.

That brightened John's mood. If the case was solved quickly he might not need to follow through with resigning. It was too early to say, but John was grateful for the possibility. "Thank you, I'll give you a call as soon as I can."

Eric nodded and wished him a good day, a sentiment John returned as he stepped out of Eric's office. The instant the door closed behind him, John felt a change in atmosphere. Nothing was different about the hallway, or the people walking through it, or even in the noises he could hear. But now he knew that Sherlock was waiting for him in the staff lounge, the game was on, and damn if he didn't feel an achingly familiar sense of anticipation. To hell with it. This would be his last case, at least if he had anything to say about it, there was no reason John couldn't enjoy it. One last time, and then it would all be over.

John kept an even, unhurried pace as he made his way through the halls, smiling and greeting familiar faces as he saw them. When he'd been taken into custody during his last shift there hadn't been many people around, and, for once, news must not have spread, because there were no curious or dubious looks thrown his way. Either that, or Eric had made certain that he would feel welcome when he returned.

John pushed open the door to the staff room. It was a time of day that was normally very busy, so he wasn't surprised find the room empty, except for a familiar lanky body sat in one of the chairs in the corner. Sherlock was dressed in light pink scrubs which accented the paleness of his skin and the darkness of his hair. Sherlock was bent over his phone and the light from the windows encased his figure in a soft glow. John's step faltered just as Sherlock looked up. He'd always felt Sherlock was good looking, even beautiful, but this scene almost seemed orchestrated to remind him.

Sherlock lifted his arm to wave John over. John gave himself a mental shake and started walking forwards once more. They had a case, they all needed to focus. "What have you got?" John asked, sliding into the seat opposite of Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned forward, sliding his phone towards John. "This goes all the way to the top," Sherlock murmured. "I knew it had to be an administrator when you were detained, and that helped narrow the field. I didn't need to look far after that."

John glanced down at Sherlock's phone and saw a smartly dressed man with trim brown hair and light blue eyes. "Is this him?"

Sherlock nodded. "His name is William Mathers, son of Samuel Mathers. Both father and son have been heads of this hospital; the legacy goes back several generations in fact. They are also heavily invested in many pharmaceutical companies. The Mathers have been a wealthy family for a long time, and are powerful in their own right. Both Samuel and William Mathers earned their doctorates in medicine; however, William spent half a dozen years out of the country just after he'd obtained his license. Apparently he was married to a woman named Jessica Evans during that time. She was _not_ from a wealthy family, and William's father was certain that Ms. Evans was only looking for money and power. When Samuel learned that William had formally married Jessica, he disowned William and used his business connections to ensure that William would have a difficult time finding work. William spent the next few years working as a doctor in the United States of America, before his wife left him for some rich and powerful politician."

"His father was right," John observed, frowning.

"Unfortunately so, "Sherlock replied. "I believe this heartbreak, in combination with the unusually harsh treatment William received when he returned to the United Kingdom, were the two blows that pushed him to violence."

"Harsh treatment?" John asked.

"When William returned to the United Kingdom his father made him work jobs well below his pay grade. He stated as a janitor, doing the worst jobs for the longest hours and the least pay. The long hours didn't change when William was finally allowed to work in a medical position. It appears his father spent several years promoting interns into positions where they would supervise his son. Samuel was presumably trying to show William his place, honestly people are so predictable. Six months after William was finally allowed to work alongside his father, Samuel died, unexpectedly. The death was ruled an accidental overdose of prescription medication. Samuel was seventy two at the time, and his eyes as well as his attention were going. William assumed his father's responsibilities, and as far as I can tell, no one investigated the matter any further."

"You're sure it's him we're looking for?" John asked, glancing at the picture once more.

"I did a cursory examination of the other administrators in the hospital and no one else came close to fitting the profile. No one else has the means he does, either. Apparently he's even taken great pains to be friendly with the staff here, an unusual trait for someone so high in administration. Have you ever seen him?"

John squinted down at the picture and shook his head. "Maybe in passing, I don't remember. Mostly I've been focused on my work." He pointedly avoided Sherlock's gaze, but he still felt the shift in the atmosphere around them. They both knew perfectly well why John had been out of sorts these past few months. Though, if Greg was to be believed, Sherlock had been out of sorts as well…

John finally lifted his eyes to Sherlock's, noting again the faint bruising under the eyes and the slight gauntness to his face. John had been too confused, and then too angry to really look at Sherlock during the Holloway incident. Now worry returned unbidden, just as it had when he'd first approached Sherlock about this case. John had been angry then too, so the worry had been easy to brush off. Now though…

 _I love you, John._

John swallowed and looked pointedly out the window. "What next?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, struggling with himself. They were _right_ in the middle of a case and Sherlock's mind kept wandering. He wanted to speak to John about more than just the case, wanted to reach out and _do_ something to alleviate the pain that was so obvious on his face… but he had no right to. _Sherlock_ had put that particular hurt there in the first place. He had to stay focused on the case, that was the one and _only_ thing he could do for John, and it would be the _last_ thing. "He's been very subtle. Odds are we're going to need to catch him in the act, and even that will be tricky with how indirectly he's been committing these murders. Our best source of data is likely to be his office, he spends most of his time there. He's at a meeting with the Imperial College Healthcare NHS Trust board of directors. He's blocked off his entire afternoon for this meeting, so we should have time."

John nodded and stood. "Then we should get to it."

Sherlock stood also, holding out a long white doctor's coat towards John. "I got it from your locker, we'll draw less attention this way."

John accepted the coat and quickly pulled it over his shoulders. Sherlock lead the way out of the staff lounge, and John followed, doing his best to ignore the tumult of emotions rioting inside his heart.

Their path through the hospital was easy enough. Sherlock must have looked up the blueprints, or something, because his step never wavered. Despite Mr. Mathers supposed accessibility, his office turned out to be quite a ways away, in a completely different wing of the hospital. John had been a bit nervous as they maneuvered out of Accident and Emergency, but they didn't run into Eric, and no one stopped them. After that no one seemed to even notice them. A doctor and a nurse were just part of the normal background of the hospital.

When they arrived it took Sherlock mere moments to pick the lock; John barely had to stand guard. Once the door was open, they both slipped inside. John looked around, while Sherlock made straight for the computer resting on the impressive wooden desk along the far wall. It was unassuming enough, as offices went. Diplomas and awards hung on the walls, bookshelves and medical tomes lined the rest of the office. There was a coat rack by the door and a skeleton in the corner of the room. There was nothing too ostentatious in the office, considering William's status with the hospital, and there wasn't anything particularly warm or welcoming either. Not that there was anything wrong with a good, neutral office, except that now they knew there was something _very_ wrong with the person who occupied it, and they needed proof.

The door clicked behind him and John whirled around in surprise and panic, only to see Mary slipping inside the room with them. When John had left the flat, she was taking her turn in the shower. Now here she was, hair still slightly damp, in fresh clothes and a long white doctor's coat. "Sorry I'm late boys, where are we at?"

"Mary?!"

"I called her after I called you," Sherlock muttered, his gaze still fixated on the computer. "Didn't I tell you?"

"No you did not bloody tell me!" John shouted.

"John," Mary cautioned, walking towards him, "We are breaking several laws at the moment. I would advise against yelling."

"Right, sorry," John replied, crossing his arms over his chest. This worst part was that he wasn't really all that mad about Sherlock leaving him out of the loop; it was the fact that he'd found Sherlock's comment _amusing_. John took a steadying breath, willing his emotional upheaval to the back of his mind. The sooner this case was over with, the better…

"I thought you might need this," Mary continued, pressing cool metal into John's hands. He started when he realized it was his gun. He'd never made a secret of having it, but…

"We're searching an office; do you really think this'll be necessary?" John asked, slipping his gun into the pocket of his white coat.

Mary shrugged. "You never know." She turned then and fixed her gaze on Sherlock. "You'd better let me help with that," Mary said, walking over to Sherlock, who was still furiously typing away at the computer.

"I've got it," Sherlock replied.

"Do you?" Mary asked leaning over his shoulder. "Because from here it looks like you're still fighting the first layers of firewall on a temperamental system, trying desperately to avoid the self-destruction protocols."

"I'm fine," Sherlock repeated.

"Sherlock, we might have time, but we don't have all day," John broke in. "Weren't you the one going on about all these hacking skills Mary's not using as a nurse? Just let her try."

John was expecting more of a fight, he was expecting a temper tantrum if he was honest, but Sherlock simply looked up at him, then over to Mary who started edging her hands onto the keyboard as Sherlock's left them. Sherlock even vacated his seat, without much protest, allowing Mary to slide into place almost seamlessly. John's mouth fell slightly open as he watched the exchange. Sherlock _never_ gave up that easily.

John ran a hand through his hair and turned to stare sightlessly at the rows and rows of medical texts on the wall, trying very hard _not_ to think for a moment. Thinking and over-thinking had done nothing but confuse him, and while John had been the first to notice this case, Sherlock, and apparently Mary, were far better suited to moving this case forward at the moment. When they had another lead, when it was time for action, he would help. Right now, all he wanted was a short reprieve from the mental, emotional, and physical turmoil that his life had become.

Sherlock saw John's struggle, and restricted his perusal of the bookshelves to the opposite side of the room. He _could_ have hacked William's computer, but Mary _was_ faster, marginally, and, while he couldn't seem to stop hurting John, he could at least minimize John's discomfort. Mary's was in the main system now, he could tell by the pattern of her fingers against the keyboard. Determined to observe all there was, Sherlock fixed his eyes on the medical texts in front of him. There were all the usual suspects. Gray's Anatomy, the Oxford Textbook of Medicine, The Principles and Practice of Medicine, a copy of the International Classification of Diseases, Schwartz's Principles of Surgery, even The Practical Management of Pain. They were all in good condition, with little scuffs and creases on the binding that telegraphed the long hours William must have spent studying. He had taken his medical career quite seriously at one point. The Practical Management of Pain had taken a bit more of a beating than the others, the edges of the binding were actually starting to crack.

Sherlock lifted his hand and ran his fingertips down the spine. He paused, shifted his hand and repeated the gesture with The Principles and Practice of Medicine. What he felt, combined with his certainty that people were idiots, compelled Sherlock to lift The Practical Management of Pain from the shelf. Sherlock held the book closed so that the spine was parallel to the floor, then let it fall open in his hands. If there was a page the book was opened to most often, this method of opening the book would highlight that section. Most of the pages were intact, but near back of the book, the pages swelled unnaturally, indicating a bookmark of some sort. Sherlock turned a few pages, the book had opened close to the back, and was confronted with an obituary.

 _ **Samuel Edward Mathers**_

 _ **1933-2007**_

 _Samuel Edward Mathers, 73 passed away at his home on Saturday, February 18th 2007. Samuel Mathers was born to Mary Patrice Redmund and Daniel Thomas Mathers on March 30th, 1933 in Manchester, England. Throughout his life, Samuel Mathers was a business man and a philanthropist. He followed in his father's footsteps, studying medicine at Oxford University, where he also obtained a Master's degree in business management. Samuel Mathers was a diligent student and obtained his medical license at the tender age of 27. Samuel Mathers worked the entirety of his medical career at Charing Cross hospital, pioneering research and development of new life saving medications and surgical techniques. He is survived by his only son, William David Mathers, whom was with him in the family home in London when he passed away of complications from a long standing heart condition. He will be missed both by his family and the community that he dedicated his life to._

Behind Samuel's obituary was another one, and another one, and another one. There were _thirty four_ obituaries crammed into The Practical Management of Pain before Sherlock found the obituary for Andrew Wallingford...and there were two more _after_ Mr. Wallingford, one of whom was _Emily Rowley_ , the very patient that had brought John back to him.

"What is it?" John asked, stepping forward. He'd finally managed to make himself look about the room again, only to find Sherlock focusing intently on the book he was holding. "What have you found?"

Sherlock passed John the obituaries and he read silently, his face paling at the realization. "Fuck, Sherlock, these last two were _my_ patients," John exclaimed, holding out Emily's obituary, and another, much older woman, by the name of Jane Morris.

"That would explain why you eventually caught William's attention," Sherlock murmured, frowning down at the obituaries in their hands. "Every serial killer keeps trophies, but this is too subtle, it's not enough to act on."

"Damn," John breathed, his expression hardening.

"We'll find something," Sherlock assured him. John looked up and their eyes locked. "There's always something." John's lips quirked upwards in the hint of a smile, before he could stop himself and Sherlock's expression softened in response. "His victims seem to all have been highly powerful in the medical or business world, or directly related to someone who held such a position. That gives us a good idea of why he's so angry."

"Speak of the devil," Mary murmured, pulling the attention of both men back to her.

"What?" Sherlock and John chorused, moving to stand on either side of Mary and peer at the computer.

"I didn't find anything immediately promising," Mary explained, "So I targeted the hospital's purchase orders, looking for any irregularities. We know he killed Emily Rowley with Morphine labeled as Narcan. Mostly likely he took several bottles of Morphine from the hospital's supplies and relabeled them himself. It's easy and not likely to be noticed since medication errors plague every hospital. We don't know what he used to kill his other victims, but odds are it was something similar."

"Mary this is just an invoice for cleaning supplies," John observed.

"Yes, and he's purchased both ammonia and bleach based products," Mary gestured at the screen enthusiastically, "If a few of those happen to go missing and someone suffocates it would be all too easy to place blame on ignorant janitorial staff."

"That's a bit of a reach isn't it?" John asked. "Every hospital has massive amounts of cleaning supplies, and some areas need different products. It's hardly unusual to have two things in a hospital that shouldn't mix, baring the proper safely protocols are observed."

"Yes, but look at the rest of the receipt, John," Sherlock said, leaning forward and letting his finger drag across the screen. "This hospital primarily utilizes OdoBan. It's a highly effective cleaner that smells pleasantly of Eucalyptus, good customer satisfaction results there, and it markets itself on being able to kill MERSA. William submitted the order personally, trying to play the good doctor and leader." Sherlock reached forward and tapped the lines of the invoice that displayed the bleach and ammonia based cleaning products. "This deviation might be what we were looking for."

"Isn't this a little sloppy?" John asked. "Everything he's done so far has been easy to explain in other ways, that's what made him so hard to catch. This isn't exactly catching him red handed, but it stands out. Even the Morphine dressed as Narcan didn't stand out, exactly. I had it tested on a _hunch_."

"Meticulous killers like this usually only get sloppy when they're impatient," Mary mused, then stiffened and looked up at Sherlock. "Didn't you say he had a board of directors meeting this afternoon?"

"No need to be immaculate when it doesn't matter if you're caught afterwards," Sherlock murmured. "He's making his final play..."

Mary jumped up, and as one they rushed for the door. In most locations a group of people running at full speed would draw at least some attention, but not so much in a hospital. Time was always of the essence in a medical situation, and it was often the difference between life and death. People did see them, but they took care not to knock into anyone, and so their presence was speedily dismissed or forgotten.

"What building is the meeting in?" Mary gasped as they ran.

"It's in the center of the financial district," Sherlock replied, tapping on his phone as he ran. "Someone from Mycroft's team is going to meet us there with independent air supplies.

"Shouldn't we let Greg know?" John asked, his breath coming in pants.

"Already done," Sherlock noted, looking over at John as they ran. "Someone's called in a few bomb threats, and there are several suspicious packages at each location. Could be William's work, could be something random. It's probably William. Your appearance, and his failed attempt to silence you may have forced his hand. These bomb threats have tied up a good deal of the yard, and Lestrade won't come without more evidence."

John frowned as he considered the fact that they'd be more or less on their own. Mycroft had more leeway to act around, or sometimes outside of, the law considering his position, but this was hardly an international case, or a case of national security. Yes many powerful medical organizations could lose people today if they didn't make it in time, but this didn't strike John as a case where Mycroft would force his way in, and he couldn't remember Sherlock every willingly tolerating Mycroft butting in on a case.

" _He said that Sherlock had asked you to leave because you were in love with him and, despite the fact that he loved you too, he couldn't handle it."_

" _I worry about him. Constantly."_

" _I love you, John."_

The trio burst out of the hospital and were at the street in moments. Sherlock lifted his arm and, as per usual, a cab materialized. They all piled into the cab and for once it was Sherlock reaching for his wallet. He gave the cabbie the address whilst slipping him what appeared to be two hundred pounds.

"The faster we can get there, the better," Sherlock explained with an obvious wink. The cabbie nodded and then they were speeding off down the streets of London.

John looked to Mary, mostly because he didn't want to look at Sherlock. She was catching her breath, they all were, and her grin was infectious. Her eyes glittered with an excitement and almost a humor that John had rarely seen. In the time he'd been her flat mate he'd seen her sad or discomforted a few times, but nothing very strong. He wouldn't have said she was _unhappy_ but in comparison to what John saw on her face now he could only label what he'd seen before as contentment. Now, she looked _alive_.

 _"She's a nurse_ _ **now**_ _. She spent most of her younger years in free lance special ops. That's how she's seen so much of the world, and she left the business after her husband died."_

John turned away so he could look out the window. Everything was happening so fast, and soon it would be over. Normally this wasn't a problem, in fact it was part of the appeal, but now, when the case closed, it felt like he'd have to decide all over again how to restructure his life. Mary had seemed so charming, and smart, and easy tempered, and she _was_ , but looking at her now John wondered just how similar she was to Sherlock. There were some key differences, they weren't at all the same person, but the similarities were striking enough that John wondered what exactly their time in his life said about _him_. He'd tried to strike out in a completely different direction after Sherlock ordered him gone and somehow he'd ended up right back here _again_.

A hand fell on his and squeezed gently. John looked up into Mary's face. She was still smiling, but it was more subdued now. He could see through the windows they were fast approaching their destination. "Are you ready?" she asked.

John didn't _want_ to be ready; he'd spent the last several months trying to distance himself from just this sort of madness, but "Yes, definitely," was out of his mouth before he could think any more about it, then the cab was rolling to a stop and they all hurried out of it.

Sherlock led the way around the building, into an ally. When they were halfway along the alley an imposing man in an immaculate suit stepped out from behind a dumpster. He was hefting three apparatuses that looked a bit like scuba diving tanks, except with large face masks that covered the eyes, nose, and mouth, as well as an accompanying ear piece. Sherlock grasped his tank from the man and seamlessly slipped the straps of the air tank over his shoulders. Mary had already reached for her tank and was slipping it on herself, pulling on the mask and affixing the ear piece. The man that Mycroft had sent was also securing his own breathing apparatus. Apparently he was going with them.

John jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Sherlock, fully geared up, still in his nursing scrubs, holding out John's tank to him. John accepted it and somewhat begrudgingly tolerated Sherlock's help in strapping it on.

"Can you hear me?" John nearly jumped again, because, thanks to the ear piece, Sherlock's voice was directly in his ear.

John swallowed and nodded. "I can hear you."

"The meeting William is supposed to be attending is on the eighth floor," Sherlock's voice came again. "We're going to take the service elevator up. I couldn't get anything from the security cameras in this building; I'm not sure what we're walking into."

"So it's just another average Thursday for you, then?" John bit his lip as soon as the words were out of his mouth, regretting them. Now was hardly the time for jokes.

"Quite," Sherlock replied, and John knew from the glint in his eyes that he was smiling. "Baring the fact that it's Tuesday, of course."

"Boys, you can flirt later," Mary broke in. "Right now we have a situation to neutralize."

John immediately bristled, and opened his mouth to declare that he was not, in fact, flirting, only to promptly shut it again. No. He wasn't even going to dignify that with a reply. Instead he turned, pulled his gun out of the pocket of his white coat, and made his way for the building while the other three followed him inside.

"The elevators is this way," Sherlock spoke, indicating the direction with a jerk of his head. He led them down a narrow hallway with unpainted cinderblock walls, and around a corner before coming to an abrupt halt.

"William's been here," Sherlock declared, pointing at the floor. "There are trace patterns of shoes too expensive for any simple maintenance staff to afford." Sherlock turned and faced two large steel doors, which seemed to be muffling and incessant humming noise. Sherlock pushed at one of the doors and it swung open with only minimal resistance. The room inside was dimly lit, filled large metal rectangles and cylinders. Some had faintly glowing buttons, and the humming was definitely louder now. "This is part of the heating, cooling, and ventilation system," Sherlock mused, scanning the room.

They circled the edge of the room, peering at the machines. John couldn't make much sense of them, but he kept his eyes peeled. Even now he trusted Sherlock's detective skills implicitly.

When they neared the far corner of the room Sherlock halted again. There was another apparatus here, but it looked rougher around the edges. It was pressed tightly against the side of a much larger metal rectangular box, with a short pipe connecting them both. Sherlock stared for a moment, before ripping his face mask off and sniffing the air. Despite Mary and John's shouted protests, Sherlock knelt beside the smaller apparatus, and sniffed again. This time he pulled away coughing and struggled to fix his breathing mask back into place.

"He's rigged up a system to pump the gas through the ventilation shaft. It will be less concentrated that way, but the effects will still be deadly. John's overdose patient-"

"Emily," John interrupted.

Sherlock turned, looked at John for a moment, and then rolled his eyes. " _Emily_ , shows how little William cares about collateral damage. Goodness knows how many other people may have died because of bad medication." Sherlock looked back at the strange apparatus before him. "I don't know how long he's had this going. Everyone in the building could already be dead, and he's probably paranoid enough by now that he'd rigged this with some sort of self-destruct capacity if it's tampered with too aggressively."

"I should be able to handle this," a new voice said. John watched the large man that Mycroft had sent, who had been silent up until this moment, step forward and eye the apparatus attached to the ventilation system. "Five minutes tops, and that's if he actually knew what he was doing."

"Right," Sherlock piped in, reaching for his phone. "I'm texting Lestrade now, hopefully he can bring a crew in for cleanup, and route some ambulances this way." Sherlock pocketed his phone just as the man from Mycroft's team knelt by the ventilation system and began examining whatever apparatus William had attached to it. He was pulling delicate looking tools out of his suit jacket while Sherlock ushered Mary and John back towards the hallway.

"Let's see if anyone's still alive up there," Sherlock murmured.

John followed, his mind a tangle of confusion. With one breath Sherlock was all but discounting the name of one of William's victims, and with his next he was expressing concerns about saving lives. Did he _really_ want to save lives? Or did he just want to catch William before the man took himself out? At one time John would have bet everything he owned that Sherlock cared more than he let on, and that because caring about people wouldn't, in fact, save them he expressed that caring by focusing on what _would_ save them, casting everything else to the side. Now… well now John didn't know _what_ he was sure of anymore.

The elevator ride to the eighth floor was silent and filled with tension. When the doors opened they moved as one out into the main hallway. The walls were finished with expensive wallpaper and the floor was covered in thick carpeting, and everything was surprisingly empty. Sherlock picked up the pace to a quick jog, and Mary and John followed his lead. It was eerie passing so many empty halls and rooms. Something was definitely wrong. John wanted to hope that people had begun to evacuate when the air started to smell bad, but he couldn't be sure.

When they came to a double set of wooden doors Sherlock paused and pressed his ear against the door. "I can hear voices, and coughing," Sherlock confirmed, kneeling down to address the lock. It was a simple job, and not twenty seconds later he was standing and pushing the doors open. The room was littered with people. Some lay prone and motionless on the floor, some were crowded under the table, or cowering along the walls. William was there too. John recognized the color of his hair and the shape of his face, although it was partially obscured by his own breathing apparatus. He stood, wild haired and frantic eyed by the floor to ceiling windows of the room, gesturing forcefully with the large rifle in his hands at anyone who dared to approach. The windows weren't likely to be of much help unless someone broke through them, they weren't the kind that opened. Even so, William was keeping his victims pinned, watching them suffocate while potential salvation was only a few feet away.

Then he saw them.

For all the still bodies in the room, many were still flailing, so it took William a moment to register three new, upright bodies in the room. As soon as he saw them he screamed something unintelligible and lifted his gun. John started to raise his own gun, but his was only a pistol and William's looked to be a hunting rifle. John took aim and pulled the trigger anyway. Almost at the same moment that he fired Mary was in his arms, and her body jerked violently. John wrapped an arm around her reflexively, then both arms, because she was starting to sink to her knees. Sherlock scooped the gun from John's loose fingers as he fell to the floor with Mary. An icy fear gripped him when he felt a sticky wetness coat his hands. Several loud cracks of gunfire sounded, shattered glass sprayed the room, and Mary's fingers tightened in the fabric of John's coat. People were sobbing, screaming, and gasping all around them, but Mary's last murmured words rang loud and clear in his ears.

"Goodbye, John…"


	17. Yours

**Greetings, and welcome back for another chapter of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **NOTE: This chapter is edited for Fanfiction,net, which does not allow explicit scenes. If you want to see the explicit version, please visit my account on Archive of Our Own: /users/Dark3Star/works**

 **Trigger Warning: A funeral is depicted in this chapter. Please be safe.**

 **Thank you to sweetmarly, Brown Eyed Girl-62, and Altariel de Valinor for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

* * *

Chapter 16: Yours

The sounds of the telly echoed in from the other room. It had been on almost constantly these past two weeks. The background noise helped. Not a lot, but it helped. It made it easier to pretend the flat wasn't empty and the fridge wasn't full of half eaten take-out.

John pulled his tie straight and checked his work in the mirror. It would have to do. The suit looked well put together, but it did little to hide the devastation so evident in his eyes.

Mary's funeral was today.

John took a deep, measured breath and reached for her letter, which lay, slightly crumpled on the dresser. He'd found it on the coffee table the night he'd returned to the flat. He hadn't wanted to come back, he hadn't been able to stay in 221 B at all after Sherlock's fall, but at the same time he _needed_ to come back. Mary's flat had been his only refuge these last few months, and it would feel wrong not to come back. He'd been idling in the sitting room, trying to decide if he should stay or run, when he'd spotted the letter. It was a small white rectangle starkly contrasted by the dark stained wood of the table by the fireplace. It had been laid out like an invitation, so John had read it.

It was the letter that made him decide to stay.

 _Dear John,_

 _I've written so many of these letters now, that I've lost count. Sean and I used to have scrapbooks of them. It was never something we talked about, and I didn't read any of his until I read the one that mattered most._

 _We both knew the dangers inherent in our line of work, and we accepted them. I would like to think we thrived on them. Most people in our line of work write these types of letters at least once, our last goodbye, just in case we don't make it back. I don't think most people write as many of these goodbye letters as Sean and I have, or that they keep them. Some people get out and stay out. Some people join because they have no one to write letters to anymore, and some people lose the emotional capacity to connect enough to make writing such letter worthwhile anymore. I think Sean and I kept them as mementos from our adventures. In a way they're also a record of our love story._

 _I was so angry at Sean when he died. He could have gotten clear, made it out, but he just had to come back for me. I mean, I would have done the same thing in his place, but still… I couldn't read his letter for months. I couldn't do_ _ **anything**_ _for months. I just sat in our apartment. I didn't even want to drink myself to sleep because I_ _ **knew**_ _I would see his face and I couldn't bear it. I think I was just this side of hallucinating from lack of sleep before I finally did read his letter, and then for weeks afterwards, when I did sleep, I held it close to my chest like a child's stuffed toy. The original letter is laminated now; I nearly wore it to shreds before I had the forethought to preserve it._

 _I'm not sure if you'll ever read this letter. I hope you won't have to. I've done a lot of things, killed a lot of people, but I still don't like causing someone pain if I can help it. I guess that's why I became a nurse when I left my other business behind._

 _If you_ _ **are**_ _reading this letter, however…then I am so, so sorry. I never thought I'd do this type of work again, not after Sean, and I certainly never thought I'd have anyone else to write a letter to. I didn't have anyone before Sean, or since, until you. You were a very good friend to me, John, and that is a rare and precious thing in this world. Sherlock is a very lucky person to have your heart, and I think he finally knows that._

 _If you two_ _ **didn't**_ _love each other (don't argue with me, you know I'm right), and if I didn't think you both could really sort it all out if you tried, I might have tried to snatch you up for myself. But I could fill a book with possibilities, and this letter is about goodbyes, and facts._

 _I decided to write this letter while I watched your sister sleeping at St. Thomas. I had been excited before at the prospect of using my skills again, working this case with you. When you were taken to Holloway I knew the stakes were even higher than we first thought, and I wanted to write this letter._

 _We've only really known each other a few months, but they've been very good months. As I mentioned earlier, I don't have anyone else in the world, and I was going to leave everything I had to charity. Now, however, I want to leave my flat and all its possessions to you. Whatever you decide to do with it, I trust it will be the right thing._

 _I've just phoned Mycroft to help push the legalities through. I could have done it myself but it was worth it to hear the indignation in his voice when I called his personal phone. I could've easily gotten his number by hacking his personal information, but I didn't need to. When Sherlock and I were pouring over the records for Charing Cross, he kept hacking the security cameras to watch you. Personal boundary violations aside, he was so engrossed in watching you, that he never noticed me picking up his phone and rifling through it. I thought it might be worthwhile to keep a copy of Mycroft's number for myself. Turns out I was right._

 _Sherlock really does love you, you know. If you can't trust your own judgment, then take my word for it. Profiling was another specialty of mine, and I'm rarely wrong. I know you still love him, even if you don't want to sometimes. I hope that you'll at least consider giving it another go with him, but I can't force you, especially not now. You've been through a lot John, and so have I. At the end of the day only you can decide what you can live with. For my part I've seen so much of the ugliness of the world that it seems a shame for something like love to go to waste._

 _My marriage to Sean wasn't perfect. No relationship is. We fought and hurt each other, and we made up, because we were always happier and better together than we were apart. You can't love someone without being hurt by them or hurting them, that's all part of being human. The real question you need to ask yourself is: Is it worth it? For me the answer was always yes._

 _I hope you find your happiness John, and that you can forgive me for any grief I may have given you._

 _Love,_

 _Rosamund (Mary)_

Mycroft had informed John that Rosamund was Mary's real name, Rosamund Kelleher, maiden name Rosamund Stoll. She'd apparently adopted the name Mary Morstan when Sean had been killed and she'd left her former work behind her.

It had taken a little time to sort out Mary's will, which named John as executor, and make the necessary arrangements for her funeral. Not to mention giving Greg a statement, and all the cleanup that had been left to do after the case ended. John had apparently been the one to shoot William, right through the head, and Sherlock's quick thinking in blowing out the windows had provided those whom still lived valuable oxygen. There had been five deaths at the end, not counting William. John knew they'd saved a lot of people, but every life they didn't save still weighed heavily on him.

Carefully folding the letter, John placed it in his inside suit pocket, and straightened his tie once more.

It was time.

* * *

Everyone else was already at the church by the time John arrived, but that was alright. John knew he wasn't late; he just hadn't been able to make himself go early. This was going to be hard enough as was without adding more hours to it.

The crowd was small, and they all turned to face him as he made his way down the aisle towards the coffin. Mycroft and Greg were there towards the back, Molly, Harry, and Mrs. Hudson were clustered together a few pews down. Molly, Harry, and Mrs. Hudson hadn't really known Mary, Mrs. Hudson had never even met her, but they knew John, and had come to offer their condolences.

And there, at the front, was Sherlock Holmes. He looked pale, stricken, and conflicted, as though he wasn't sure if he should even be here. John wasn't sure either, but Sherlock was the one other person, besides John himself, whom Mary had requested.

She had left most of the details of her funeral to John, only requesting that Sherlock be present, and that she be buried under her real name, beside her husband. Mary's letter made it clear that she had no other close ties, so John had only invited those involved in the case, excepting Mrs. Hudson who couldn't be left out because of her connection to John and Sherlock both, as well as the people who Mary had helped save. He doubted Mary would want much ceremony, but he wanted her to be remembered.

John paused at the edge of the aisle, just before the few steps up to the coffin. He was acutely aware of Sherlock's presence close to his left, but John couldn't look at him right now. John took a deep breath and mounted the steps to give Mary his last goodbye.

She looked so relaxed, just like she was sleeping. That was hardly unusual for a corpse, but because John had known her and cared for her, it felt like a cruel trick, like she would wake if he touched her. John reached out and took her hands in both of his. Her fingers were limp and cold, but those sensations didn't loosen John's grip.

"Thank you, for everything," he murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to her forehead and squeezed her hands one last time before easing himself back down the steps to the first pew.

John concentrated very hard on his breathing as the music started. He'd spent the last two weeks processing the loss and everything that meant for him, but the finality of the moment was powerful. Sherlock shifted beside him as though he might slip away to a different pew, but before he could John's hand reached out and snatched Sherlock's sleeve, keeping him fixed in place. Sherlock stilled and when John felt sure he wouldn't try to move again he lowered his grip, sliding his fingers over Sherlock's wrist and palm until their hands were locked together.

John had poured over Mary's words every night since her death, and he felt no closer to an answer about Sherlock, or about the rest of his life, but in that moment, he needed Sherlock there, and Sherlock stayed.

The priest began to speak and John did his best to concentrate on the words.

"My friends, I thank you, for coming today to celebrate the life of Rosamund Kelleher. We come together in grief acknowledging our human loss. This is a tender time, a time when all of us, in one way or another, are confronted with feelings of loss and uncertainty. There will be disbelief and sadness in the hearts of many of us who are in this room. Perhaps it is hard to admit, even to ourselves, how profoundly vulnerable death can make us feel. We celebrate Rosamund's life even as we tremble before this vulnerability. For we know that whether we die quickly or slowly, we must all face the prospect of having to give up everything we think we are before we can return to God. Our celebration of our love for Rosamund cannot blunt these feelings. It is not about feeling better, but about finding strength and support in the sharing of this love, about experiencing fully all our joy and sorrow, and by discovering that love can reveal itself even more deeply in times of loss. And in the depth of this grief is revealed a secret. Life, experienced fully with all its joys and sorrows, then gives its secret to itself."

The priest paused for a moment, looking out over his small congregation then lifted his arms and face up. "Dear God, look upon Rosamund, deliver her and set her free from every bond, that she may rest in your arms. Reveal your truth to those who are bereaved, so that they may meet the days ahead in thy peace. Grant us the grace to entrust Rosamund to thy never-failing love, and remember her according to the love which she has bestowed upon us in her lifetime. Rest eternal grant to her, and let perpetual light shine in her. May she forever live in your light, as she lives in our hearts."

The priest paused again, and stepped down behind the coffin. He leaned over Mary's body and made the sign of the cross, murmuring, "May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you. May the Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you, and give you peace, now and ever more. Let there be peace for all. Amen."

It wasn't a long service. Mary had spoken about having faith, believing in God, but not being particularly religious, so John had tried to focus on what he felt would be most meaningful. The organ music started to swell with a final hymn, and then the pall bearers moved to lift the coffin.

Sherlock's grip on John's hand was firm throughout the service, and Sherlock walked beside John in the processional to the graveyard. John had at first tried to write a eulogy to deliver at the gravesite, but he found himself unequal to the task. He hadn't known Mary well enough or long enough to do her justice. Instead he focused his energies on commissioning a joint gravestone for Mary and her husband. It would be some time before it could be erected, but it would read:

Sean Kelleher

1980-2012

Rosamund Kelleher

1982-2017

 _Love is always worth it._

There were a few more prayers at the gravesite, and each person in attendance let fall a handful of dirt into the grave. John couldn't make himself let go of Sherlock's hand, so when it was their turn they walked up together and threw their handfuls of dirt simultaneously.

There was very little conversation after the service, a few whispered condolences and goodbyes, nothing more. John stayed after everyone had left, and Sherlock stayed with him, silently holding his hand. Once the grave had been filled and they were well and truly alone John started to wonder if Sherlock would stand there with him through the night if John didn't leave? John hadn't really intended to stay this long; it just hadn't felt right to leave yet.

John shifted on his feet, shivering slightly in the damp air. "Have you had your stitches out yet?"

Sherlock turned his head away so that John wouldn't see his fleeting smile, even though John was still looking at Mary's grave. Trust John Watson to ask about his health, even after everything that had happened. "No. I was planning to take them out myself," Sherlock murmured in reply, turning his now serious expression back towards John.

John shifted and looked at him, his expression slightly scolding. "Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. I can take them out for you. Do you have everything I'll need at 221 B?"

Sherlock stilled, and then slowly nodded.

"Then let's go," John said, gently tugging Sherlock after him as he turned to leave.

Sherlock followed silently, only pausing to lift his arm and summon a cab once they reached the street. John sent Sherlock a fleeting smile before they both climbed in. They rode together in silence and when they arrived John was surprised to find Sherlock pulling out his wallet. They shared another look as he paid. Sherlock never paid for the cab, but then this wasn't a case…

They walked inside and up the stairs. John had seen the light on in Mrs. Hudson's window, but thankfully she left them to their own devices. Only when they passed the threshold of 221 B did John finally let go of Sherlock's hand.

"I'll scrub up in the loo, you gather the supplies and meet me on the sofa?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, and they both went to their separate tasks.

John took notice as he moved through the flat that things were more orderly than the last time he'd been here. There was still an assortment of Sherlock's usual brick-a-brack, but overall the flat lacked the explosion of madness that had consumed it before.

It felt like _home_.

John bit his tongue and he scrubbed his hands clean, cursing his heart and his memory. Standing in the familiar loo it was hard to convince himself that he wasn't home. And yet... 221 B hadn't been his home for many months now…at least in name.

Steadying himself, John ventured back out into the hallway and into the sitting room. Sherlock was seated on the sofa, the supplies John would need were laid out with precision on the coffee table. John pulled up his old chair and reached for Sherlock's arm.

Gently, John undid Sherlock's cufflinks, and pulled back his sleeve, revealing his pale skin up to his elbow. Reaching for the antiseptic, John dripped some onto a cotton ball, then gently swept the cotton ball over Sherlock's stitches. John also took time to cleanse the scissors, even though Sherlock assured him they were already clean. He wasn't being difficult, he really believed Sherlock, he just…wanted to take his time.

The thread gave way to the scissors, and was soon gathered into a small pile on a square of cotton on the coffee table. John applied antiseptic to Sherlock's skin once more, before reaching for the vitamin E oil that was also laid out for him.

"Thank you for remembering," John said, lifting the bottle and letting a few droplets fall along the fresh scar tissue.

"I can't promise that I always would," Sherlock murmured in reply as John's fingers began to massage in the oil.

John nodded. Sherlock would always be Sherlock. That was undeniable. He would have to call to remind him…

Slowly, John looked up, and was caught by the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. He certainly looked like someone in love…

 _ **"**_ _I've known him for a long time, and I don't think he knows_ _how_ _to love someone properly. I really think he had himself convinced he never would fall in love. Mycroft said that Sherlock only came to grips with the truth of how he felt after you left, and I think he might be right."_

John licked his lips and said, "I thought you were married to your work?"

Sherlock's lips quirked up in a brief smile. "Well, the latest statistics speculate that 42% of all marriages in the United Kingdom end in divorce."

John smiled despite himself. Yes, Sherlock would always be Sherlock, and, even now, John wouldn't want him to be anything else. John _missed_ Sherlock, he missed the cases, he missed it _all_.

"I love you," John whispered. It was both an accusation and a lament.

Sherlock reached forward and cupped John's face with trembling fingers, all his resolve to keep John at a distance had crumbled away the moment John had reached out to him at the funeral. It might not be what was best for John, but Sherlock had no strength left to resist, not when John was right _here_ , and Sherlock might finally offer him long overdue comfort. "I love you too, John," he murmured.

They leaned forward and their lips met in a soft, sweet kiss. One of Sherlock's hands tightened in the fabric of John's collar, and the other slipped into his short hair, holding John to him. John leaned forward, one knee pushing into the fabric of the sofa, pressing against Sherlock's hip. John parted his lips, and Sherlock's tongue met his halfway as John moved forward to straddle Sherlock's lap. John's hand pushed inside Sherlock's suit jacket, pressing against the fabric of Sherlock's oxford shirt, and cupping his side. John's other hand looped up and over Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock leaned up into the kiss, pulling John down towards him. John pushed against him, pushing them both into the back of the plush sofa. Sherlock hummed gently in satisfaction when he felt John's hands converge on his tie, slowly working it free. Sherlock gasped into their kiss when he felt John pull his tie away and start to work on the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock's fingers trembled again and he pulled John closer, half untucking John's shirt in the process. He wanted to finish the job and run his fingers up the bare skin of John's back, but he hesitated until John pulled back and murmured, "I _want_ this, Sherlock," against his lips.

Sherlock leaned up and recaptured John's lips as his own fingers tugged John's shirt free and traced idle patterns against the warm skin of John's back.

John nipped lightly at Sherlock's lips, then pulled back and nibbled his way across Sherlock's jaw to his neck, sucking and biting possessively.

Sherlock moaned softly, his fingers flying to the buttons of John's shirt and tugging them free.

John's lips slid back over Sherlock's neck and jaw to his lips, pressing against them and their tongues met once more in a sensual dance. Sherlock pulled John's tie free, before his long fingers eased John's shirt and jacket slowly over his shoulders and down his arms.

John shivered as he felt the fabric fall way, his arms winding their way around Sherlock again in an instant. "Bed," John breathed against Sherlock's lips.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, moving to stand.

John tugged off Sherlock's shirt and jacket together as they stood, letting them fall to the sofa. They toed off their shoes and socks as they stumbled the short distance to Sherlock's room. For a brief moment Sherlock was pressed back into the hard wood of his bedroom door, letting John lean into him. He lifted first one, then two legs around John's waist, desperate to have him closer. John pushed against him, moaning when he felt Sherlock's erection pressing against him.

Sherlock's hand fumbled for the door knob, sliding his legs along John's and back to the floor again as he found it, and turned it. They stumbled into the darkened room and fell together on the bed. John smiled against Sherlock's lips, then chuckled softly as they squirmed their way to the center of the bed.

"Is this really the time for giggling?" Sherlock murmured, pulling John's belt free from his trousers.

"Like that's ever stopped us before," John replied, kissing, and nibbling his way down Sherlock's chest.

 **Censored Content Removed**

John stayed pressed firmly into Sherlock for a long moment before easing himself down against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's fingers swept possessively over John's back as he cradled the ex-army doctor against him.

Several long, breathless minutes passed before Sherlock murmured, in a halting voice, "You know… there are still two bedrooms at 221 B." It was as close as he could bring himself to ask for something he knew he didn't deserve.

John let out a breathy laugh and pressed a tender kiss into Sherlock's chest, just above his trembling heart. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe they both were, but John knew he'd already made his decision. It wouldn't be easy, but their relationship never had been easy, in any form. It was worth it though. As long as they were both trying to build something together, it was definitely worth it. "Yeah, but I think we'll only need one."

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 **Note: This has been a wonderful ride, thank you so much everyone for your support and encouragement. The story is not quite over yet, there will be an epilogue next week, and the authors note there will contain sneak peeks of my next two works. I hope you will stay with me through next weeks epilogue and, if any of my upcoming works interest you, that you'll keep an eye out for them. Thank you.**


	18. Worth It

**Greetings, and welcome back for the final installment of Choosing Love! ^_^**

 **Thank you to sweetmarly, and Altariel de Valinor for their thoughtful and encouraging reviews! Thank you also to everyone who favorited, and/or followed my story. I hope you enjoy this next installment!**

* * *

Epilogue: Worth it.

The light, joyful voices of two violins playing in tandem welcomed John back to 221 B. John smiled as he mounted the steps, grateful that Sherlock was home. Mary's gravestone had been erected today, and he'd just returned from visiting her. Technically the gravestone was for Mary _and_ her husband, so John had brought flowers to lay on both of their graves. Loss was never easy, but John was doing his best to make his peace with it.

As he came to the top of the stairs John saw Sherlock and Nikki standing side by side, playing together. Nikki's cast had come off recently, and she was building up the strength of her arm in the hopes of resuming her first chair responsibilities soon. Sherlock had resumed covering for her half the week, and Mycroft's replacement covered the other half. At the moment, John was selfishly grateful he'd have Sherlock to himself tonight.

John paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame to watch them. They both moved with practiced ease, though John could see a slight tremor in Nikki's arm as her muscles strained to keep up.

A few moments later, they finished, both of their bows sliding to a stop over their strings. John lifted his hands and gave them both a quiet round of applause. Nikki jumped, but Sherlock only turned and smiled at him. Naturally, Sherlock had deduced when John had arrived.

"Well done you two," John said, stepping into the room with a smile. "It looks like your recovery is coming along nicely, Nikki," John observed, nodding towards her arm.

Nikki smiled and moved her bow around, flexing her muscles. "It's okay. It's not what it used to be, but I know it'll be stiff for a while."

John nodded in agreement. "Just keep practicing, and using your brace, as well as icing it when you need to, and you should be fine."

"Yes, Dr. Watson," Nikki replied dutifully, a slight wryness creeping into her smile. "Trust me, Sherlock's given me plenty of opportunities to practice." Glancing over her shoulder at Sherlock, Nikki asked, "7:00pm right?"

Sherlock nodded, and John suspected he saw a light flush of color in Sherlock's cheeks, although it could have easily been a trick of the afternoon sunlight that was streaming through the windows.

Nikki nodded back. "I won't be late," She promised, carefully packing away her instrument. Nikki pulled on a light jacket, hefted her violin's carrying case, and stood on tiptoe to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, which he tolerated with reasonable composure. "See you on Thursday," she promised.

Sherlock nodded. "See you then."

John waved his goodbye to Nikki as she made her way out the door and down the stairs, then he turned his gaze back to Sherlock, who was waiting for him with a soft, warm smile.

"Hello," Sherlock murmured, walking up to John and pulling him into his arms.

John smiled back. "Hello yourself," he replied, pulling Sherlock into a proper hug and inhaling deeply. It was good to be home.

"How was your visit?" Sherlock asked softly, pulling back to meet John's eyes once more.

"It was okay," John replied, his voice thick for a moment. "The gravestone turned out well."

Sherlock nodded. "I can go with you next time, if you like."

John's eyes narrowed dubiously. "And collect samples for more experiments?"

Sherlock smirked. "Well, I didn't say I wouldn't be multitasking."

John pushed playfully at Sherlock's shoulder, but he did not let go of Sherlock's waist with his other hand so the movement was largely ineffective. They had been reunited for a few months now, and things were definitely not the same. In John's opinion they were better. His old bedroom had been converted for storage, leaving the rest of the flat marginally less cluttered. Sherlock and he were back to working cases, though only marginally, as Nikki was still not cleared to return to work. John had talked with Sherlock about his commitment to Nikki, and many other things that had occurred during their separation. As far as John could tell, Mycroft's presumptions about Sherlock's feelings and actions, had been more or less correct.

Sherlock was still very much himself, but John felt the warmth in him was more apparent, and his 'bad' behavior was more wry, less calculating. It was as though the caring parts of Sherlock that John had always known were there had been thrown into sharper relief, and John was grateful for it.

In the end, John had not returned to Charing Cross, although he had agonized over the decision. Instead he accepted a position as physician on-call with them, which allowed him the flexible hours he now needed.

"What was Nikki talking about when she asked about 7:00pm?" John asked, tilting his head to the side to meet Sherlock's suddenly averted gaze.

"I merely recommended a place and a time where her practice might prove most beneficial," Sherlock murmured, the long fingers of his right hand coming up to stroke over the skin of John's cheek and neck.

John leaned into the touch, but was not the least bit distracted. "Sherlock, what are you up to?"

"Nothing," Sherlock murmured, leaning in for a kiss.

John obliged him, but only for a moment. "What kind of nothing?" The question was whispered against Sherlock's lips as John locked his gaze with Sherlock's.

They stared at each other for a long moment before Sherlock sighed and leaned back. "You're not going to let this go are you?"

"No," John replied, tightening his grip on Sherlock's waist so that he could not pull away. "You know how I feel about secrets." They'd talked a great deal in their first few days together, each sharing what they had felt during their separation, and discussing how things would be, if they remained together. Sherlock had voiced his own reluctance, and fear of hurting John, which had kept him so distant at first. John had processed how hurt he had been, and still was, noting that some pain would be unavoidable, that was simply life. John had been adamant that they had a very strong chance to work as a couple if they were honest with each other, prioritized healthy communication, and respected each other. In the end they had both agreed to try.

Sherlock looked away for a long moment before finally turning back to John. "Tonight a man named Travis is going to attempt to reconcile with a former lover of his. I may have given Nikki directions to the closest street corner where this is likely to occur. It happens to be approximately halfway between here and that flat she's renting from you. It seemed like a good opportunity to rest her arm a bit, but also keep up her exercise."

A slow, amused smile spread over John's lips. "Sherlock Holmes, are you playing matchmaker?"

Sherlock snorted in disgust and attempted to wriggle out of John's arms in earnest, but John was having none of it. All Sherlock succeeded in doing, was turning around, at which point John pressed himself tightly against Sherlock's back, chuckling softly at his antics. "What brought this particular kindness on?" John asked, leaning up to press gentle kisses into the back of Sherlock's neck.

"I wouldn't exactly call it a kindness," Sherlock replied, his arms resting atop John's, which were wound determinedly around Sherlock's torso.

"Oh? Why not?" John asked, attempting to peer over Sherlock's shoulder at him.

"It might not work," Sherlock replied, turning his head to meet John's gaze. Sherlock's fingers tightened over John's as a wave of possessiveness welled up inside him.

"And?" John prompted, leaning against Sherlock, sensing that he had not told everything."

"And I might have wholly selfish reasons for wanting Travis's former lover spoken for," Sherlock replied, looking away again.

"Who is Travis's former lover?" John asked. There was such a long interval of silence that John felt compelled to ask again, turning Sherlock in his arms to face him. "Sherlock, who are they?"

Sherlock studied John's face for a moment before lifting his fingers to John's neck and tracing a mark he had never seen, but had imagined to have been there at one time. Sherlock was both jealous, and grateful that John had someone when he needed them. "His name is Marcus Oylear." Haltingly Sherlock found John's eyes again. "I believe you have been acquainted with him."

John's mouth fell open in surprise. They had spoken at length and repeatedly about what had transpired in their days apart, particularly during the case. This particular point, however, had not been alluded to in great detail. "How?" John breathed. "How did you know it was him?"

"I met Marcus when I was first investigating Mr. Wallingford's death, and I saw the mark you left on him." Sherlock hesitated until John's hand came up to grasp his. "The rest was hacking. I discovered who Travis was shortly after I met Marcus. These last few weeks I have been speaking to him online. He's still in love with Marcus, apparently, and I informed him that Marcus was still very much in love with him."

A slow, disbelieving smile made itself known on John's features. He shook his head. "You really are something." John lifted Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. "I don't suppose you could pull up some security camera footage?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. "You want to watch?"

"Not the whole thing," John protested, shoving against Sherlock once more. "But yes, I think I would like to know what happens."

"What about personal privacy?" Sherlock inquired with a wry smile.

"I dunno," John replied. "I think you and Mycroft have ruined me on that point forever."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, in part to mask his own embarrassment, but dutifully sat at the computer and hacked into the necessary cameras. At the moment it looked like a very ordinary London street, but they were early, so to speak.

Once the video feed was up, Sherlock leaned back, and John leaned over his shoulder, wrapping his arms around Sherlock from behind. Sherlock turned his head and John met him in a long, slow kiss. Sherlock brought his hands up to grasp John's shirt and maneuver him around the chair until he could pull John into his lap. John moaned softly as he settled himself into Sherlock's embrace. Sherlock's hand trailed slowly down John's back and over the curve of his arse, giving a forceful squeeze. John groaned softly, and rocked into Sherlock, his own hand sweeping possessively over Sherlock's chest.

Sex was one of the many things they had discussed in recent days, and they were generally compatible in what they liked, and what they didn't. John had yet to be penetrated but that had more to do with Sherlock's slight preference for being penetrated than anything else. John had adamantly insisted on complete STD testing on both sides before being willing to forgo condoms. It was a point which Sherlock completely agreed on, and the clean results of said tests had been delivered to both parties just three days ago.

Sherlock broke away from John's lips to trail slow, gentle kisses along John's jaw towards his neck. John sighed happily, tilting his head to give Sherlock better access, gasping when he felt the wet slide of Sherlock's tongue followed by a deliberate scrape of teeth against his skin.

Movement caught John's eye and he turned his head back to the screen. "Nikki's just arrived," he said. This report brought forth a put upon sigh from Sherlock, who reluctantly stopped his ministrations, leaning his head against John's shoulder instead.

The video was silent, but they could both see Nikki pause near the corner and gently remove her violin. She lifted her instrument and began to play, and while they could not hear, both Sherlock and John watched her form. Several minutes later a man slightly younger than John with short blond hair that was just long enough to curl, began to walk down the street. At first he seemed like any other passerby, but when he came to the end of the street he stopped, loitered a few moments, then began walking the other way. When he reached the corner he hesitated again before turning back. He was starting to pace.

"Is that him?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded quietly. The camera could only show so much of the street, but when Travis stopped and stared, John suspected Marcus wasn't far. Sure enough only moments later Marcus came into view. He was on the opposite side of the street from Travis, walking towards him, his head bent over his phone.

Travis watched Marcus for a moment before scanning the road and making a quick dash across the street. He was well clear of any cars, but his intense momentum carried him directly into Marcus, despite Travis's obvious attempts to slow down before he crashed into him. Marcus started and they both stumbled a few steps before finding their feet again. Marcus's phone had fallen to the ground, but he didn't reach for it. Instead his arms remained locked around Travis, where they had flown in attempt to steady them both, his face the picture of astonishment.

Travis was speaking animatedly, and while no audio came through, both John and Sherlock could see the question etched into his face.

 _Can we try this again?_

Marcus blinked slowly and for a long moment his jaw seemed fixed open. At length, however, he did speak. Sherlock and John watched them for several moments. Marcus began to frown and shake his head but Travis lunged forward and pulled Marcus into a desperate, passionate kiss, which Marcus actively participated in after a moment's pause. John watched with a fond smile as they parted and Travis reached for Marcus's hand, intertwining their fingers.

John turned his gaze back to Sherlock and murmured, "You did a good thing today."

Sherlock looked at him dubiously. "And if this hadn't worked?"

John shook his head and repeated his assertion. "You did a good thing."

"They're walking away now," Sherlock observed, and John turned back to the screen, watching the two men walk away together, hand in hand.

"Marcus left his phone," John observed with a wry smile.

"I suspect he might change professions soon, and a change of phone number might also be warranted," Sherlock observed, leaning his head against John's.

John sighed and leaned against Sherlock as well. He was happy; happier than he'd thought was possible. He knew he had a lot of reasons to walk away and never look back. There was a lot of hurt in his history with Sherlock, but ultimately John was glad he stayed. They were working at their new relationship and building something brilliant together. As much as he'd fought against the notion at the time, he had to agree with the words Mary had spoken to him, several months back.

Love it worth it. Love is _always_ worth it.

* * *

 **Thank you so much to everyone for your support and encouragement! I am so thrilled that this story picked up the following it did. While it is a little sad to see one project end, I always seem to have one or two more waiting in the wings. This marks a big transition for me, however, as I will be departing from the Sherlock Universe for a while.**

 **My next work, Child's Play, takes place in the universe of Rick Riordan's Heroes of Olympus/Percy Jackson series, and I will begin uploading it next week on the same weekly schedule. Here is a sneak peek:**

 **Child's Play**

 _An innocent misunderstanding brings Jason and Nico face to face with something they never knew existed. Now that it has been named, curiosity tugs on their hearts and minds, driving them to embark into uncharted territory in their relationship..._

 **After Child's Play, I will begin posting, Make or Break, a story that takes place in the world of Hetalia. I have also included a sneak peek:**

 **Make or Break**

 _When Matthew gave Alfred his heart, he never expected it to be broken. Unable to ignore the painful truth, Matthew breaks off his relationship with Alfred less than a year after their marriage. Love, however, isn't finished with Matthew. In less time than he thought possible, Matthew is confronted with a choice he never thought he'd have to make..._

 **This story has been a amazing ride and if either of my next two works interest you, I hope you will keep an eye out for them! Thank you again, and I hope you all have a wonderful day. ^_^**


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